Reflections
by Acciodoublestuffed
Summary: An unexpected friendship forms across enemy lines. Morning 1,002 and Reflections.  Rumbelle; Mirror/Queen
1. Morning 1,002

**Disclaimer: **Don't own anything.

**Summary: **They share one thousand and one tales; it's the morning of the one thousand and second day of Belle's captivity.

* * *

><p>Belle knows the inner workings of her tower by heart. She's been there a fortnight, and between the mild taunting and less mild torture for no apparent reason except that the queen appears to be a sadist, she's had plenty of time to explore her barren surroundings. She might as well have been back in the dungeon, sans the tea set obviously.<p>

So of course, the tiny mirror, the size of a thumbnail, in the far corner doesn't escape Belle's notice.

She's reached the peak of boredom (_and the subsiding of tears and pain_) when she resorts to calling out, "Alright, I know you're in there, so you might as well do the polite thing and introduce yourself."

It's silent for a moment, and Belle considers yelling a little louder, perhaps throwing in a word or two she learned from… well, a word she's learned that's not at all something her royal tutors taught her, when a face appears.

"I am the Magic Mirror, at your service," the reflected face says.

"Don't you mean at the queen's service?"

The mirror chuckles.

"What?"

"I can see why he kept you."

Kept. Past tense. "Yes, yes. We all know why I'm here, but answer me this, one kept-being to another: if he doesn't want me anymore, which he did make perfectly clear, what good can I be to _your _mistress."

More chuckling. "You can't fool me with that line, princess, nor yourself, for that matter. You know you mean a great deal to him, and that makes you—"

"A bargaining chip?"

"Useful. Immensely so."

"Lucky me." She settles a little lower into her hay, for Belle has become an expert at sulking.

"At least you can rest assured you're more useful alive than dead—which is more than many in the queen's hold can say."

Belle cocks her head to the side, something about his voice peaking her interest. She notices a strange, lilting accent in his not unpleasant voice. "From where do you come; your voice is strange to these parts, I think."

"True, princess, I come from past the Levant, from the sands of Arabia."

Her eyes grow wide. "You must have a great many tales if you come from _that_ far."

"I do, quite a number in fact."

A thought occurs to Belle, but no. He (_if it really is a "he" at all_) would of course refuse. However, it can't hurt to ask; after all, what did she have to lose? "Could you," she leans forward, conspiratorially, "share one of these tales, or at least what your home is like?"

The voice is without emotion when he replies, "This is my home now."

"Oh, I thought not."

"Not so quick. I only said this is my home, but perhaps I could be convinced to tell you of the far away places my eyes have seen."

The way he breaks his words lets her know that this offer is not without cost—_she knows that best of anyone. _"What's your price, man of the mirror?"

He smiles. "I know little of this land. Even less of its histories. It behooves me to learn."

"Why do you wish to know such things?"

"Should not one always strive to know of where they find themselves?"

"That is true, but that is not your reason." She thinks for a moment. "You wish to advise her, don't you?"

He laughs. "Yes, yes, I can see why he kept you. So will you agree to this? Tell me of your home and I'll tell you stories to keep your mind busy in this place of madness."

Belle considers. Largely, she would be conspiring with the enemy, but then, she would be conspiring against _him_ if she let herself go insane, a path on which she fears she finds herself currently. This way she could remember all that her tutors had taught her and see worlds she has only ever imagined (_and looked at in_ his_ book collection once upon a time_). "Deal."

* * *

><p>So it goes, a story a day. The history of the Great and Terrible Ogre Wars, the first, the second and the current third. He tells her of a great cavern filled with treasure, with a password, and how brother killed brother over the ownership thereof, only to die of starvation for forgetting the secret, enchanted word.<p>

She shares how the two warring lands across the river became King George's because the two heirs fell into a ridiculous and self-destructive love and killed themselves in a case of mistaken timing. This is exchanged for the account of the great vizier to the bumbling sultan, who ruled more wisely than his lord. The vizier was responsible for extracting the secret of paper-milling in the East, as well as the building of many great universities and himself was a famed translator, but lost it all, and most importantly his head, because of an affair with the sultan's lovely and capricious wife.

On some days the queen precedes their sharing of chronicles and tales of adventure. She mocks the princess and toys with her in most violent and creative ways.

One day, he says (_for she is most certain by now that it is not a mirror enchanted, but a person, a real, live person_), "And that is how the first Jin came to be, and because of him, the art of weaving Magical Carpets became known throughout the land by sorcerers, manufacturers, and peddlers a-many." He listens to the girl sigh, pleased with the legend. "Did you know, I wonder, that it has been a year?"

She is silent for a time, but does not cry—which is what he had been expecting. "I thought as much. So shall we continue on with the records found beneath the West Mountains from inside the jars from the ancient cleric's commune of scribes?"

* * *

><p>"And that is how Midas gained his great gift and, in my opinion, curse, but no one's asked me." She pauses, staring out the window at high summer; her tower's sweltering. As a bead of sweat rolls down her forehead, she asks, "Have I missed our second anniversary?"<p>

"Yes, lady, a few weeks back."

"Does he still live?"

"You live; should that not be answer enough?"

"Yes." She smiles, faintly, "he must live."

* * *

><p>It's a chilly spring day. The queen has done a particularly good job of inflicting torture for torture's sake. Belle wonders if the woman-of-the-road's been bested in some small manner and needs a play-thing on which to loose her anger. Bend, but not break; scar but not reduce to ashes.<p>

Belle is not smiling when he presents himself to her. She is also lacking in a certain vitality, he thinks. The former Genie asks hesitantly, "What stories shall we trade today?"

"I—" She pauses mouth open, but then shuts it again, looking more than a little confused, "I think I've run out of tales to tell. I have no more accounts left inside of me to trade for yours."

He takes pity on her, strangely enough. "Well, at least allow me to tell you a story to raise your spirits."

She remains silent. Finally, Belle looks up at the man in the mirror, "I only have want of one tale."

"And which tale is that?"

"The tale of how the man in the mirror fell in love with a woman lacking a heart."

He sighs. In the beginning he had dreaded this very question, but now, it's been so long, he had forgotten to worry. She's taken him quite by surprise—_oh yes, he could see why Rumpelstiltskin had kept this one._ "I will tell you, but only in exchange for your final tale."

Belle scoffs, "But I've none left, you see."

"You've still one: how the beauty fell in love with a beast."

"Then our deal has come to an end." She says immediately, but without anger.

"So it has, princess."

* * *

><p>It's a cold winter's day in Storybrooke, and in hell, as the case may be, Mr. Gold thinks, because at the sounding of his shop door, he looks up to see Sidney Glass crossing the threshold. "Whatever brings <em>you <em>here, Mr. Glass? Surprised Regina let out your leash far enough."

Mr. Glass halts momentarily at the biting comment, but continues to walk to the front counter. "I'm here without the mayor's knowledge."

"You don't say," Gold replied, skeptical. _What was the witch up to this time?_

"You don't have to believe a word I tell you, Mr. Gold, but at least hear me out. Who knows, you might find that what I have to say is to your liking."

"Somehow I highly doubt that, Mr. Glass."

The reporter sighs heavily, but does not answer, instead, setting a manila file folder on the counter.

"And what, may I ask, is _this_?"

"See for yourself."

Gold opens the file and thinks he might have a heart attack. It's a medical file for _French, Rose_. It's her picture; it's her life.

She's in the psychiatric ward, the _insane asylum_.

"How long?"

Sidney sighs again, and no, it can't possibly be, appears remorseful. "Too long. I heard what happened to Mr. French—wrote it up actually. I always wondered why _this girl_, but then it all clicked."

"But why," Gold pauses, not sure if he can specify more than those two words. Finally, he adds, "help me?"

"Because believe it or not, I know what it is to be in love with someone you are told you can't have." With that, Sidney Glass turns to leave.

"Mr. Glass," the pawnbroker calls, "What's your price, for this?"

The man thinks—in his pity, he had not planned to ask for anything in return. Then, he knows what to ask—_wish—_for, "The mayor can never know it was me."

"Done."

The two men nod at each other and part ways. It's a cold day in Storybrooke, but strangely, both feel a touch warmer.


	2. Reflections

**Disclaimer: **I don't own anything

**Summary: **An unlikely friendship forms across enemy lines

**Prompts: **Vanity Tray; Belle has a bad hair day; lemur babies dance at midnight; tired magicians; Velodrome, leafier, cared, nearness, plead; She took something precious, just meant for me; everywhere I look for you I strike out (set in SB?); they're in his Cadillac; Emma's Yellow bug

* * *

><p>Sidney watches the young typist and editor closely, and not just because she's new, and not just because he's a journalist, and most certainly not because she's a recently released mental patient. Sidney watches her because there's something <em>familiar<em> about her. Something that makes him want to talk to her.

Something that makes him follow her to her secret lunch spot, or at least the spot she thinks is secret.

When the metal door, leading to the roof creaks open, she turns, standing to attention. "Are you following me," she asks sharply, pointing her plastic fork at him, like a weapon.

Maybe this girl wasn't as all-together as he'd thought. "Yes," Sidney says, holding up a brown paper sack. "Thought you might like some company for once."

Rose French lowers her arm and takes a look around. "Well, alright."

She sits back down, near the ledge, but far enough back to be out of sight to those on the street. As Sidney sits, he notices they've a perfect view of Mr. Gold's pawnshop. It's a nice day, with a light breeze. He opens his sack lunch, tuna melt sandwich and coleslaw with coke, that may have been spiked, not that he kept a bottle of whiskey in his bottom drawer or anything like that.

He looks to her lunch. Peanut butter and jelly and an apple, green, not red. They don't sit close, but Rose doesn't seem uncomfortable with his presence or the intrusion, at least when she isn't on the defensive that is, nor did he think her likely to jump anytime soon—if rumors were to be believed. "Nice spot you got up here."

She eyes him, looking for sarcasm, but finds none, "Thank you. I like it."

"How'd you find it?"

She shrugs, "I'm good at finding hidden things."

Okay, that's only mildly creepy. "Fair enough."

"How did you know I came up here."

"I'm a journalist, Miss French, and you're not inconspicuous."

She nods. "Well, that's true. Everyone watches the crazy girl."

"So you come up here to hide."

"Not to hide, to just have a break, I guess."

Sidney nods, "I can understand that."

Rose turns to look at him, but says nothing, going back to her white bread sandwich.

"It's kind of dirty, sitting on the ground."

"A bit."

"I have some folding chairs. I could bring them up, if you'd like."

She takes a second. He wonders again how true those rumors are about ledges, but then she nods, "Yeah, that would be nice."

* * *

><p>Contrary to popular belief, Belle is not crazy. She has just has two sets of memories. However, her memories of the land in which they currently find themselves, Storybrooke, aren't as comprehensive as everyone else's. For instance, those memories of the proper way to run a kitchen in the current day and age are tragically missing—she wonders if the bitch did it on purpose.<p>

She's yet to mention this to her boyfriend—_lover_—whatever she's to call him. She doesn't want to worry him, which is all she thinks she ever does. So, she continues to order in before he gets home, or they go out to eat. He thinks she's in a celebratory mood, _and she is, by the gods, of course she is_, but really it's a all a front for the fact that she's no idea what those triple digit numbers on the dial mean, nor how to operate the little buzzing box, _micro-something-or-other_, and she'll be damned if she has to admit it.

Eventually, of course, someone is bound to notices.

"This is the fifteenth day in a row you've brought a peanut butter and jelly." Sidney eyes her scant lunch of processed chips, desert cookies and messily mashed together sandwich—the bread slices don't even match. "Someone having trouble adjusting to the outside world?"

Belle, _Rose_, looks uncomfortably at the meal. She wonders what she did wrong. She'd searched "average sack lunch" on the internet—which idiotically enough, she understands perfectly, while useful skills such as frying, baking and refrigeration are all nuances she can't quite grasp). "What? This is a perfectly normal lunch."

"Yeah, one that you've had for two weeks and counting." He laughs over his pastrami on rye, "It's okay. You were _away_ when everyone else your age was burning instant pizza."

Oh yeah, the fake memories. In this world she spent her twenties in a decidedly-not padded room—it wasn't stone this time but something called _cement_ . "I don't have any idea what that is."

Sidney laughs again, sighing. This girl would be the death of him. "Come over tonight. We'll start with the basics."

"The basics?"

"Cooking. It's pathetic." He eyes her lunch again, "I can't watch you eat that one more time without gagging. Not to mention, eventually _he _will run out of places to take you for dinner. This town isn't that big, remember?"

They never say Mr. Gold's name, for some reason. She plays along. It feels right. In addition, what he says is true. She needs and _wants_ to learn to cook for him. Belle asks not in sarcasm, but genuine curiosity, because she's yet to learn—or rather, recall—the finer points of sarcasm, "Alright, but what do you know about cooking?"

He laughs, shaking his head at her words, "That's why I like you, Rose—you're so damn innocent." She looks confused at this, but doesn't argue when he trades half of his sandwich for hers, thank goodness, because truth be told, she _is_ getting sick of the repetition. "Trust me, Miss French, I know plenty."

* * *

><p>Belle stops by the pawnshop before going to Sidney's apartment. She tells Rumpelstiltskin, <em>Gold<em>, that she won't be home for dinner. When he asks why ever not, she tells him she has plans with Mary Margaret. He visibly sighs in relief, believing her lie. She doubts he'd be none too happy to know she was getting a cooking lesson from the mayor's lapdog, as Sidney is referred to in their home.

After kissing him goodbye, brief and quick, because she's not worried over curses and knows they'll be time for more later, she follows the directions the journalist gave her. She rings the doorbell. When no one answers, the raps on the door itself. "Hello, Sidney?" she calls, wondering if she's got the right number. Belle is double-checking her paper when the door opens.

"Not so loud," he ushers her in, taking a peak outside behind her.

"Worried your neighbors won't like you inviting a crazy person over?" she asks lightly, but wonders why he looks so anxious.

"Don't be ridiculous," he answers lightly, but he moves past her quickly, going to the dining table, just past the entryway, taking a small tumbler in hand filled what she assumes is whiskey, could be scotch, as she's learned from Gold.

Yes, he was definitely nervous, "If tonight's not a good night, I can go."

He takes a drink. "No, no. It's fine." A bell sounds, and Sidney goes to the kitchen around the corner. "Make yourself at home. We'll start as soon as I get the bread in the oven."

Belle walks further into the apartment. It's a nice enough place, of course, nothing to what Gold has, but comfortable. She takes off her jacket and sets her purse down—because that's what you do in this world when someone invites you inside—setting both on the table. Beneath, there's a multicolored Persian rug, and Belle finds herself smiling at the sharp contrast of color, against the rather white and bland living room. She surveys the bare walls looking for life, when she notices a large vanity tray hanging on the far wall.

Belle is captured—she can't look away. It's a single, round piece of glass, clear as any mirror, surrounded by what could have been an oversized, golden crown. She walks forward on unsteady legs, to stand before the tray. Upon seeing her reflection in the mirror, Belle suddenly realizes just exactly whose home she stands in. Glass. Sidney _Glass. _

My old friend has a body now.

"Hey, Rose." She turns and catches the apron he tosses at her, not registering the action. Sidney smiles, nodding a head toward the kitchen, "Come on."

She walks with stunted steps into the kitchen. A body, but no accent. Strange.

He hands her a glass, "First lesson, wine always helps."

Belle chokes out a laugh. Yeah, wine would help. She takes a sip, then a gulp. "So, what are you making?"

"Me? Oh no, I'm not making anything, but _you _are going to make fettuccine alfredo."

"Yeah, right." She laughs again, "I don't think you quite understand. I literally don't know anything."

"Which is why we're starting with the basics." He walks her over to the stove top, turning on the gas burner. At last that was the same as Gold's. Sidney hands her a stick of butter and a knife. "A major staple you got to know is how to make a white sauce. Step one, chop off a hunk of that butter into the pan."

Belle stares at him, but does as he says. As it sizzles, she asks, "Now what?"

"Flour. Take that bag and that fork and slowly add until it looks about right."

"When is that?"

"Oh, I don't know. You can just _tell._"

"Well I can't."

"Rose," he sighs, "fine, about a half a cup. Got that?"

Yes, she did know that modern measurement, had to look it up on the internet, but she knows it all the same. She pours in the flour.

"Pour _while_ you stir. You're making a butter mush. Yeah, good. That's enough flour."

She's mixed the two ingredients into a pale yellow goo that looks vaguely like custard. "Now what?"

"Milk." He passes her the carton. "Since it's cold, but the butter's hot, you have to be careful how fast your add it, or you'll end up with lumps in your sauce."

"Right, got it." She stirs in a bit of milk, looking up every once and a while for Sidney to nod for her to continue.

"That's probably fine," he nods, a hand to his chin.

"But now it's so thin."

"Oh, right, here's a good rule: everything thickens upon standing."

"Standing?"

"Standing, the longer it's on the burner, on the heat. It'll thicken up, so don't be too worried if things start out a little runny."

Belle raises her eyebrows. She realizes that this is going to be more complicated than she'd expected. She takes another drink from her wine glass, "Okay, now what?"

* * *

><p>"See, that wasn't so hard, was it? And a hell of a lot better than a P.B. and J." Sidney says, tapping his glass to hers.<p>

_P.B. and J._ now what did that stand for again? _Oh_, peanut butter and jelly, right. "Yes, but you did almost everything. The vegetables, the bread. I just stood there and stirred."

"That's half the job." He leans forward, laughing a bit, "Next time, you'll do a little more. Work our way up to full-on gourmet meals. We're easing you into this, remember?"

Oh, she remembers. Belle takes a peak again at the mirror. "That sounds nice."

* * *

><p>Theirs becomes a bi-weekly tradition. He teaches her She learns that certain spices correspond with certain food genres, basil, bay leaves, oregano, and rosemary for Italian, cumin and chili powder for Mexican, onion, garlic, and parsley as a base for most things. She learns exactly what a garlic clove constitutes; it's not the whole garlic, as she'd thought at first. They'd had to throw out an entire casserole and order in Chinese that night.<p>

It's a month before he thinks she won't slap him, throw her lunch at his head, or jump off the roof for asking the question the whole town is dying to know. "So, Rose, this thing you two have, it is _mutual_?"

She laughs. "As mutual as it gets, yeah."

"Good." Sidney peaks at her over his egg salad sandwich, "Just wanted to check."

"Think the monster's absconded with a poor, defenseless mental patient, hm?"

The reporter doesn't smile, "Stranger things have been known to happen in this town. What's more it's _Gold_."

It's the first they've actually called him by name. However, Rose doesn't seem to share the towns innate fear of the man.

"Yes, and you work for the mayor who no one likes, yet oddly enough always wins the election. Fascinating."

Sidney frowns. "Let's not talk about Regina."

"_Nor_ Mr. Gold?"

Then,

* * *

><p>He taught her to grill a chicken breast that Tuesday. She didn't much like learning, burned her hand on the frying pan, and rather badly at that. But at least meat preparation was a touch closer to something she recalled, and she was rather glad she didn't have to bleed and pluck the thing first.<p>

That night she comes home to Gold is going over his books, a meticulous habit of his that she's learned is best not disturbed. Though he never snaps at her for her intrusions, but on occasion, when she's come with a question about the remote or looking for just where he's gone with the dictionary this time, when he well knows she's the one who has left it about, he's gritted his teeth, taking exactly two breaths before slipping off his reading glasses to answer her calmly.

Belle smiles at him as she slips upstairs. She gets ready for be quietly, brushes her teeth and slips under the covers, her hand only mildly throbbing. She wants to wait up for him, but as she reads (_Marquez_, it's interesting, but perhaps not her favorite of the south American authors) she feels her eyes drooping. She gives up, turning off the light and rolling over, knowing Rum would be up soon enough.

Much later she awakes, her burnt hand in a bit more pain. She rolls over to the edge of the bed, in the night, she's curled herself around Rum, as she often does. She smiles at the little bit of beard that's grown over night. Belle likes watching him sleep; he of course hates it, for he never likes her to see him in such a state of disarray.

She slips out of the bed quietly enough and tiptoes into the bathroom downstairs, so as not to wake him. She turns the water all the way to cold and lets it run over the back of her hand, sighing in relief. It's still dark out, but that pregnant blackness that means dawn's not far behind. She rests her head, in the palm of her hand, still tired, wondering vaguely if they'd an ice pack somewhere around, having discovered the marvelous invention one evening, when her love had asked her to fetch one for him to put on his knee.

"Belle?"

She jumps, turning. He stands in the doorway, in silk pajamas, cane in hand, the ones she likes so much. She can't help blushing a bit.

"I'm sorry, I had meant not to wake you."

"No matter," he says, but he's said the words before, and just as then, he looks unsettled.

She smiles, expecting him to walk to her, to wrap his arms around her, to perhaps make her remember just exactly why she likes those pajamas so much and why she likes him best without them. However, he doesn't. He stays in the doorway, moving the cane so it stands between them, resting both hands atop. Suddenly, Belle is very conscious of the fact that the water is still running. She turns it off, quickly drying off her hand on her nightgown. "What's wrong?"

Rumpelstiltskin smirks, "Isn't that the question I should be asking you, my dear?"

"Oh," she smiles. "It's just my hand. I burned it a little, that's all."

His eyes show concern. Single-mindedly, he walks over and, setting his cane against the counter, takes her hand in both of his. She only pulls back mildly. "It's not a big deal. Only hurt a bit."

He does not let go of her hand, turning it to get a closer look. Very gently, he rubs his thumb along the red line the skillet drew. She hisses at the contact. He looks down at her, catching her eyes, "You could have told me; I've something that would help."

Belle shrugs, "I thought it would be fine."

"Clearly not," He walks to the guest bathroom and back, bringing with him a small jar filled with a thick cream, not unlike the butter and flour mix she's gotten so good at making. He rubs a bit on the burn. Belle feels instant relief. She sighs, closing her eyes. "Wow, what's in this."

He smirks again, "Magic, of course."

She laughs and leans forward to rest her head on his chest, but he catches her chin with a deft hand instead. "What's going on, Belle?"

She blinks, confused, "It's just a burn, nothing worry over."

"I'm not speaking about the burn."

Oh, he's suspicious. "Well, besides the burn, I mean what I said, there's nothing to worry over."

Gold sighs, unsatisfied with her answer. He takes a step back. "You've been gone, often. Now you've come home with a rather large _burn_." He pauses measuring his words, "Are you visiting your father?" He lets go of the cane to gesture a bit, he looks more himself, she thinks. "Because, if you are, I _understand_, but as I've said before, I think it best to not be without a chaperone, or at the least to notify me so if something were to go awry, I would know immediately."

She shakes her head, running a nervous hand through her hair. She chuckles lightly, "I'm not sneaking out to see my father. I don't have much interest to—I've told you that."

The man turns to her—he looks no more at ease for her words. "If you are not seeing your father," he raises a hand and looks to the ground and raises a hand, as if pulling the words from his mouth, "Is there someone else?"

"_What?_"

"Because you must know, I would not keep you here, but you must _tell_ me." His breathing is heavy and the curse runs the words _blood pressure_ through her mind.

"You think I'm sneaking around, cheating on you? That's what this is about?"

"What am I to think?" he says, a few steps below a yell. It's the first he's raised his voice to her, Belle realizes.

She also realizes this is their first fight.

"You are absent Tuesdays and Thursdays without fail, and I bloody well know it's not with Miss—" he clenches a first, losing the cursed last name. "Bloody hell, Snow—"

"Blanchard."

"_Blanchard, Snow White, _I fucking well don't care the name. She's not who you're out with, Belle."

"You've been following me," she says shocked, half in question, the other half in accusation.

He grits his teeth and takes another two breathes. "No, I have not been following you." The man stops himself from pacing to stand before her, feet shoulder-width apart, both hands again on his cane. He is planted, neither offensive nor defensive. Belle knows it is a conscious choice. "I saw Miss Blanchard at the diner this evening, most obviously without you."

Oh, she hadn't thought of that.

"I have not been following you," he says again. "I ask you to tell me where you have been." He takes a pause before adding, "please."

Belle considers simply doing just that. She imagines saying _I'm taking cooking lessons from a magic mirror who is eternally bound to your greatest enemy who it just so happens to imprisoned me for the last three decades to use as a pawn against you. _Yeah, that would go over quite well.

At least, Belle thinks, looks on the bright side: her sarcasm's improving.

She crosses her arms over her chest, ignoring the sting when she brushes against her burn, "And if I don't?"

"If there's not another, then why not simply set my fears at ease and _tell me_?"

It's not the first he's used the Socratic method against her, but the first he's done so since their reunion. She doesn't like it. "Don't play lawyer with me. I already told you that I'm not _cheating_ on you. Now answer me," she scolds. "What will you do if I don't tell you? Follow me? Ground me?"

He's livid; she can see it beneath his static words, "I'd rather resort to either of those options. I'd much prefer you simply _tell me yourself_."

He'd do no such thing. Bastard. "Well, I'm not going to."

"_Why not?_" he yells, letting loose, finally.

Belle yells back, _just like old times, _"Because it's none of your damn business, that's why."

Rumpelstiltskin looks nigh near to shaking. He also looks liable to with a white-knuckled grip to lay a blow on the kitchen table, but he refrains. The air between them cracks and sparks, like the time she'd blown out the fuse in the bathroom.

Seconds pass. Finally the magician pulls himself to his full height. For an instant he looks his age, she thinks. She wonders if she looks the same to him. "I can see that we are at a stand still." magic

Belle says nothing, still protecting her heart with her arms. She looks away, sulking.

"If you are so _decided_, I will stay in the spare bedroom."

She looks to him at that, with hurt eyes, but he's already turned and begun the ascent up the stairs with limping steps. She is alone.

Belle wills herself to hold in the tears until the door shuts. He takes his damn time. The door clicks and she lets herself cry to the silence.

* * *

><p>"Rose, good," Sidney peaks a head over the top of his cubicle as she enters <em>The Daily Mirror<em> office. "You're here. Come heck this out; you'll die."

The sentence hits her like a brick wall, but she shakes herself out of it. _It's just a saying, for thegodssake get a hold of yourself, Belle. _The lack of sleep's what's got her on edge, surely, for after she'd cried herself out, she'd trudged up to bed—none too quietly either—and laid in his large, expensive bed for an hour or two. She had finally given up and decided to just wait till she heard him awoke, try talking again, when suddenly, sleep took her. Of course, when she'd woken up, he'd been long gone.

What's more, she'd missed her first _and second_ alarm. Her hair was in total disarray, a frizzy mess. The humidity outside spoke of a coming storm. Laughingly, as if the weather had an inkling of an idea.

Belle sets her things down before trudging over to Sidney's desk, "What is it, Sidney?"

He motions for her to come closer. "Come here, you have got to check this out," he says, moving over so she can have a better view of his computer moniter, where she can see tiny creatures flit about in the dark, their eyes glowing to the sound of an effeminate commentary. terminology

She groans, "Oh lord, Sidney, I'm not watching another of those damn internet videos. What was the last one? Honey badger something-or-other."

"Yeah, it's like that, but this one's about lemurs."

"To quote the 'viral video' as you called it, _I don't give a shit,_ Sidney." She runs an angry hand through her hair.

He gives her a confused look, turning around full around to face her in his swivel chair, best in the office. "What's wrong, kid?"

Suddenly, Belle thinks she just might cry. She tries to hide it, but it's evident and written all over her face, about her disarray hair and rumpled clothing. The journalist stands. "Come on." She looks at him, starts to shake her head, but his face is so kind, and truly, _truly_, he's her only friend in this frightening place. So she nods and allows him to lead her to the roof, the secret place—_their secret place_.

He still has an arm on her elbow as he escorts her to her folding chair, always on the one to the right, while he turns his, so as to face her full on. "Now, tell me what's the matter."

"We had a fight."

"Over what?"

She says nothing, only looks at him sadly.

"Oh, I get it. He wonders where you get to twice a week, is that it?"

She nods, a little cry breaking through her mouth. "We've never fought before." A lie, but a small one, and certainly they've never fought _here_.

Sidney sighs, "So he doesn't like you and I," he pauses looking for the right word, "spending time together?"

Belle shakes her head. "No, I got angry and wouldn't tell him, which made him madder." She lets out a bitter laugh, "He thought I was cheating."

"Well, why don't you just tell him, clear things up?"

"Oh yes, and it would be just as easy to tell your _boss _what you do Tuesdays and Thursdays?" It's the second time they've spoken of Regina, _his queen_. But then, Belle blows past it, seeing him tense up, "Besides, it's my life, I shouldn't have to tell him anything."

"He's just worried and jealous." Sidney smiles at her, "He'd be an idiot not to worry."

She smiles. That helps, if only a little. "Thank you, but I told him I love him. Shouldn't that be enough? Shouldn't he trust me?"

"He should, but the world's not made up of shoulds, is it?"

"No, I guess not."

"You know, you do have to give the man some credit, if he wanted to know where you were going, he could do it in an instant."

Belle's head snaps to Sidney's, but then she realizes he's speaking of his mortal means, his _Storybrooke_ cursed means. She shrugs, "I said as much last night."

"So that should count for something." Sidney puts a hand to her shoulder, "Clearly the guy's crazy for you. He's jealous and wants to know where you go twenty-four-seven, and he could, but he doesn't. That's a step toward trust, right?"

"I guess so."

"Maybe he just needs a little reassurance to get to the next step?"

"I'm not going to tell him."

"Now, hold your horses, I didn't say to tell him, I just said to reassure him. Remind him that you love him, that you expect him to trust you, because you both know you're worth it."

Belle nods, slowly. "You're right."

"So what are you going to do about it?"

"I'm going back."

Sidney smiles his half smile, "Then what are you still doing on the roof?"

Belle's face breaks out in a grin and she stands, starts to run to the door, but stops. She turns and throws her arms around Sidney's neck. "_Thank you_."

He pats her back, awkwardly, more than a little stunned, "It's nothing. Now go on. Get out of here."

* * *

><p>Belle runs ("<em>Always running, running, running, dearie," he'd told her once with that giggle, finding her about the grounds, stockings torn to shreds. He'd plucked a stray apple blossom from her hair, at a time when he and his hands still frightened her. She'd only needed to feel spring beneath her feet. "Why look at you: leafier than Laurel Daphne in bloom," he'd said)<em>.

She feels the magic in the air—the storm's about to break, but she can beat it. She can beat the storm this time.

She runs across the street; she doesn't look up to see if her friend watches her on the roof or through the glass of the windowpanes of their office. She only looks forward.

Belle bursts into his shop with a bang; the bell falls from the door. She doesn't care. She's gasping as she takes in her lover. Rumpelstiltskin's positively shocked.

Belle walks forward until only the counter separates them. "Alright, now I have something to say," she starts, and after the space of another breath, the once-was imp straightens and looks for all the world like a shuttered window against the coming storm. _Good_.

"I'm not going to tell you what I do Tuesdays and Thursday, and you are not going to follow me, or do anything at all like that to find out." She points a finger at his stony face, "What you are going to do is apologize to me, because, well for many reasons, really, you're going to apologize, because if we're going to make _this work, _then you have to treat me, not as, as a _deal_, but as a person, my own person.

"That means I get to have my own life here, that's not just a piece of the life you've given to me. Does that make any sense?" Belle asks, but doesn't stop to hear what answer he'd have, if any, "A life that I don't have to give a _report_ on, because it's none of your damn business, but you have to know that I would never do anything to hurt you, or betray you. Gods know I didn't when she tortured me, and that ought to be enough, to prove myself to you."

He winces, and though the look squeezes her heart, as if someone had a fist about it, she doesn't soften, "I'm not one of your _deals_, anymore_. _I'm not a part of your _collection_. I'm your _true love_, damnit, and I'm allowed to have friends, to go out and not tell you exactly where I am every minute of the day, and you're just going to have to _trust me_. Trust that I love you, because I do! _I love you_, goddamnit! More than anything." She finishes with a stomp.

Belle breathes deeply, finishing, because she's _done it_. She's poured herself out as much as she can (for she won't see herself beg or plead), and if this doesn't work, then she knows that it will be the end, more permanent than hospitals with dungeons or jumping through tower windows.

The end of true love, because nothing kills love like broken trust.

She's still panting. "Well? Say something," she implores.

His stone face cracks, with a smirk. "Just making entirely sure that you were finished." The pawnbroker pauses, "And you, quite finished?"

That surprises her. She'd expected demands—or being told for a second time to _go. _Belle raises her chin, though they aren't in a dungeon, but there's just as much to lose. _Please don't be a coward this time_. "Yes, yes, I am. So what have you got to say for yourself?"

Rumpelstiltskin raises his eyebrows, "You're right."

"Now don't start—_what did you say_?"

"You're right, dearie. I was in the wrong, and I," his mouth moves over the unfamiliar word, "_apologize_."

It's Belle's turn to be shocked; outside thunder claps.

"However, it seems, you rather stole my thunder, as it were." He smiles at the pun, "Which is why, I was about to pay a visit to the Daily Mirror, to bring you these." He pulls a bouquet of roses from behind the cash register, limping around, so that nothing separates them. He passes her the flowers, real, not transfigured, former paramours.

She takes the flowers, but holds them like she'd held the blender the first time, in utter confusion. "I don't understand," she whispers.

Gold sighs, taking the flowers back and setting them on the counter. He takes her face in his hands. "You're right. You're no deal, dearie. You're Belle, and I love you." He kisses her softly, to finish making his point. "Live your life, love. I trust you."

"So, you're fine with it?"

He raises his eyebrows, "Oh no, but I'll get used to it." He kisses her brow, as she starts to answer, "You don't get to be my age, dearie, without learning that some things, if you hold too tightly, you lose them, and we don't want that, now do we?"

He wants to tell her that she's right, with particular note about the true love part, but knows she'll tell him that wasn't her point. He'll answer that it's _exactly _the point, or at least the only point that matters, but he refrains. Because his Belle is right, even if the whole notion of trust doesn't sit well on his stomach, and what's more he's lost so much, he can't lose her too, from cowardice.

* * *

><p>Rose returns to the office sopping wet. She also comes back with a bouquet of a dozen roses.<p>

They're resplendent, he thinks (because he does have quite the vocabulary—she's not the only well-read one in the office). Sidney, watches her arrange the flowers into a vase that can only have come from the pawnshop. She's humming, he notes, as she pulls her drenched hair up into a bun, and—

_Oh, good lord, that's a hickey. _

That is most _certainly_ a hickey, on her neck. Gold and Rose. And a hickey. On her neck.

Sidney shakes his head; it's a good thing he'd finished eating a while ago, because now he may never be able to stomach food again. Ever.

However, even as he is disgusted by the mental images _that thing on her neck_ has just given him, he can't help, but be glad that they worked it out.

Even though he'd had to cover for her when the boss had been wondering where "crazy" was, and though she looked all the part of a horny teenager with the parents gone for the weekend (_that dirty, old man_), truth be told, he'd missed her at lunch. He had eaten in the office, the rooftop not an option with the downpour. He had sat in his cubicle sipping whiskey and coke, realizing that he missed their lunchtime talks. Strange.

When she turns to wave him over to her desk, beaming, he rolls his eyes, but crosses the room, all the same.

"Might want to wear the hair down, kid."

Rose's eyes go wide, as she clutches at her neck, cheeks going bright red, but then she laughs. "I'd forgotten about that."

"Yeah, I have to disinfect my brain now, but doubt that I will ever wash the mental image of _Gold_ like _that_ away."

She playfully smacks him on the chest, but then he's laughing too. "Oh, with the way you drink, I'm sure you'll find a way."

She appears happy, Sidney thinks, happy as a Jay bird. That's good, even if Gold is a bastard.

* * *

><p>As the mayoral election approaches, Belle's hours and work load at the Daily Mirror increase, for like much in Storybrooke, things are changing.<p>

This year, for the first time in anyone's collective memory, the incumbent is _not_ running uncontested; Regina has a challenger.

After the disappearance and murder scandal of his daughter, Kathryn Nolan's father has had enough of Regina Mill's way of running the town.

Regina is livid, Rumpelstiltskin is gleeful (he'd always enjoyed King Midas' flair for the dramatic), Emma is, _as always_, skeptical until proven hopeful, and Belle, well, Belle is just glad to have a job.

She crosses out a few lines, with a red marker. "You could at least _pretend_, to be unbiased."

They've taken their work upstairs; things are getting busier the closer they get to election season. "He _did_ embezzle."

"Yes, and you're ecstatic."

"You know what they say," Sidney says, but continues when Belle stares blankly, "Media loves scandal."

She scoffs, "And you love—" she stops, catching herself, but not fast enough.

Sidney gives her a sharp look. "I don't remember your desk plate saying anything about commentator."

Oops. She certainly knew how to, oh how did the phrase go, _put her foot in her mouth_. Belle sighs, as the two eat and work in silence. She passes Sidney his sheet back, "You misspelled his last name, and forgot a couple commas." She tucks her red marking pen behind her ear. "And the third paragraph, I'd cut the fourth sentence. It's redundant."

Sidney looks over the (not-entirely-biased) piece nodding. When he looks back over at his friend and editor, she's examining the ends of her hair, creating those surprisingly visible forehead wrinkles to appear—it had been pulling teeth to get her to admit her age.

"My hair keeps growing," she says, as if it's the end of the world, and it may just be. Belle knows stories like that. One from a land, just two kingdoms over even. She hasn't touched her left over casserole they made the night before. Good, but not her favorite.

"That's usually what happens," he says, scribbling on the revision sheet, drawing a large arrow moving the fourth paragraph a few lines up.

"Sidney, I think I need a haircut,"

"Then go get one," Sidney answers without taking his eyes from the article-in-progress.

She turns to look at him, with over-large eyes. It's not that simple. What her friend doesn't know is that this will be her first hair cut since Gregor, the second cook's son chopped the front of her hair (_bangs_, they'd call them here) down to less than two inches as payback for losing his pig's-bladder kicking ball out the east tower window. Belle's not been one for cutting her hair since, but girls don't wear hair down to their waists in this world, and hers is already a little on the long side of normal for what she's seen here in Storybrooke. "I've never gotten a haircut before."

"Come on, no way."

My hair hasn't grown in the past twenty-eight years, because we're in a cursed, time-warp. Hm, that wouldn't do. "_Before_ my mother used to cut it." The cursed memories mention something to that effect—a haircut that ironically, also ended in tears she (_not truly_) recalls.

Sidney sets down the paper and reverts his attention to his lunch. He gestures to his own graying curls, saying, "I don't know how much help I'll be, in that department, kid." He takes a bite, "Why don't you ask, oh, I don't know, the sheriff, or somebody?"

His Rose nods, but doesn't look all too thrilled with the suggestion.

"What have you got against the sheriff? After all, she helped get you _out_." Then Sidney backpedals, remembering himself, "Or that's what the we wrote up in the paper."

"It's just," Belle sighs, "She looks at me like I'm crazy." What's more, she thinks, Henry will be there, and will inevitably call me by my _name_, and we're finally happy, so courting disaster, just doesn't sound nice in the least.

The reporter takes in his friend's face. Even though she's broken their silence clause, brought up _her_, he knows what he's going to do before he actually sighs and opens his mouth to propose the idea. Gold had to get this girl out more, or he'd have to, apparently. "I guess I know someone who could help."

* * *

><p>That Saturday, as Sister Astrid steps out of her car, Belle's eyes go wide. She turns her back to the approaching woman, facing the journalist and the beauty parlor where they'd agreed to meet Sidney's <em>friend<em>. "You didn't mention she was a _nun!_"

"Is that a problem?" His eyes widen in mock concern, "Oh, I get it. Dad doesn't like it when you talk to nuns. Another of his weird vendettas."

"Sidney, I'm serious."

"Come on, Rose, that's his fight, not yours. Loosen up."

"Oh no, it's nothing to do with that. I mean," Belle tries to cover, because she doesn't like what he's insinuating, that she's not her own person—which is _not_ the case. Nobody treats her like a child, not even her best friend. She thinks up a quick cover for her reticence, "It's not like it isn't common knowledge I'm living in _sin_ with the with their landlord, or anything like that. She certainly approve," Belle says snarkily.

"He's their landlord?" Sidney gasps. "Actually, that makes a lot of sense. You know, before you got here, he almost evicted them, and the whole town was wondering—"

"Sidney, you're missing the point. She's going to think I'm a, I don't know, a _harlot_." Belle whispers, frantically.

"Well, you did have that nice hickey last week." She shoves him, but only makes him laugh, "Come on Rose, I didn't know you cared so much about what people think, and I mean, you know what they say about Catholic girls."

"No, actually I don't."

"Oh, right, well, let's just say," he begins, but looks sheepish, "they tend to, uh, _know _more than the name implies." Sidney waggles his eyebrows at the insinuation. They're both giggling as the young nun, comes upon them "Sorry, I'm late, Sidney." She laughs awkwardly shrugging, "but you know me."

Sidney smiles; it is without malice or mocking. "Not a problem, sister," he says, taking Belle by the shoulders and turning her to face the nun, "Rose this is Sister Astrid; Astrid this is Rose French."

"It is so good to meet you," the tiny woman says, taking Rose's hand and giving it a squeeze.

"You also," she says, stiffly. "Sister," Belle adds, awkwardly.

"So Rose," Astrid begins, "I'm told you need some help getting your ears lowered."

Belle looks up at Sidney, questioningly.

"Slang, for hair cut," he offers, seamlessly.

"Ah, yes, then I do need help getting my ears lowered." She pronounces the words with a precision that don't fail to start Sidney laughing again.

The reporter watches as the nun stares at the former psychiatric patient wide-eyed. Oh, if he didn't have Regina on his back about tailing Emma today, he'd just follow these girls and crack up over their absurd levels of innocence; the motley crew of friends he found himself surrounded by. "Ok you two, I got to run, but you're in good hands, Rose." He pats her shoulder and leaves the two to alone.

Once alone, Astrid tries again, but this time without further idioms, no matter how common. "Rose, Sidney has told me so many good things about you."

Belle blushes at the compliment, "Well, I'm sure he exaggerated." She leans forward conspiratorially, "You know they tend to do that, journalists."

Her eyes widen again, just when Belle though they couldn't get any larger. "Oh no, Sidney would _never_."

Gods above, who was this woman that he had left at the mercies of?

"How well do you know Sidney?"

"Oh, we go way back." She smiles, taking Belle's hand, "but let's get you started on that haircut."

* * *

><p>Belle decides upon layers, and was almost convinced to dye her hair blonde, but at the last second decided to stick with basic brown. However, her choices are hardly the interesting part of the day; she likes Astrid.<p>

She's easy to talk to and she doesn't treat Belle any differently for having spent so much—_more than she knows—_time in a 'loony bin' (she's learned this most recent term from Sidney last week).

While Belle sits beneath a free-standing blow dryer. "So, how exactly did you meet Sidney?" she asks, wondering how much the curse has given this former fairy.

The pretty young woman thinks for a moment. "Well, I guess the very first time I met Sidney was in gospel choir."

"Choir? As in _singing_ choir?"

"Yes," she reaches forward, gently touching Belle's wrist for emphasis, "Mr. Glass has the most wonderful of voices. Sometimes, he even brings his saxophone and plays for us all."

Belle's eyes widen. The man in the mirror, a singer. It was positively laughable. "I can't believe it."

Astrid smiles, "Once, before he worked for the newspaper, he made the front page. You should see it. I think that might have been what made him want to be a reporter in the first place." She looks thoughtful, "Maybe I have a copy around somewhere."

As the beautician comes to fetch Belle for the finishing touches on her hair, she thinks over this new discover. Looks like she'd have to stop on her way home, by the library's room of microfilm archives.

* * *

><p>It isn't until mid-way through the week that he notices. He's about to leave Regina's, having stopped by to drop off the list of next week's stories, when she stops him, "Sidney, what's this?"<p>

"What's what?"

The mayor holds up the newspaper, pointing to his byline, "_This_."

His usual photo has been replaced by one of him from younger (_much younger_) days. His hair is perhaps triple or four times it's current size, and his shirt is _psychedelic_, to put a word to it. Odd, he thought he'd burned all evidence of his younger days. "Someone's idea of a joke."

Regina raises her eyebrows, but doesn't press further.

When Sidney leaves, he heads directly to the library. _Two can play at this game,_ he thinks.

* * *

><p>The photocopy of the newspaper sits on her desk Monday morning, waiting for her. The post-it note says, "You're not the only one who knows how to work a library microfiche, French." At least, he was kind enough not to actually put it in print—kinder than she'd expected.<p>

Belle picks the black and white copy with shaking hands; it's her.

_It's her, but she has no memory of this_.

It's a photo of her, _dancing_, with the captain of Midas' guard, the famed golden statue, wearing a polka-dotted skirt. She's never met him, not in this life, nor the last, and what's more, she's certainly never moved like _that_.

She's also _young_; they both are, painfully,_ heart-wrenchingly _young. They stand in the foreground of a number of couples dancing together in a large, rounded building.

As she stares, trying to make sense of what she holds, the prankster comes up behind her, "This ring any bells, kid?"

"Velodrome," she thinks.

Sidney gives her a strange look, "Someone been reading the dictionary again, lately?" Oh, she'd said that out loud, apparently. "We usually just call it a track or gymnasium, if you're feeling fancy." Suddenly, Sidney looks sheepish. "What's the matter," he asks slowly. She's worrying him. It was meant to be a joke, after all. "You look like you seen a ghost."

Not ghost, _doppelganger_. Belle continues to stare at the photo, trying to implant the false memories, if only to give herself a sense of clarity. However, the curse doesn't work like that, of course, nothing ever does. The sight cuts to the heart, and vaguely she feels like a candle when you pour out the melted wax and the wick burns down too fast. All too fast.

Doppelgangers spell trouble, they spell threats of _dead by dawn_, and all she really wants to see is _him_. She wants to see Rumpelstiltskin, go to his shop, rest her head on his chest, have him center and remind her of what's real and what's not _quite_ so real.

As she thinks these thoughts, the reporter watches her, afraid, thinking of ledges

and hospital paperwork. He reaches for the photo, "Rose, I didn't mean anything by it."

Belle doesn't let him take the picture, "It's just, I don't remember. Any of it."

"Oh," he says, looking thoughtful. "Well, who knows?" He shrugs, "Maybe this will spark something."

* * *

><p>That night, Belle goes home to an empty house, for Gold has business. At first, she thinks it very inconvenient, for today's a day, when she most needs comfort, and yes, he'd drop it all in at a moment's notice if she only asked him, but she's trying to have her own life, <em>remember<em>, and girls with their own lives don't go running to their much-older lovers every time they think they've seen an apparition of themselves.

She makes tea, to calm herself. After a glass, she's calm enough to take out the photo, from where she'd folded it up and stuffed it in her purse the minute Sidney had returned to his own desk. She looks at it again. The headline reads, "Students had a swinging good time." In the photo she is in high school, part of some youth club, learning to dance, _swing_ _dance_, apparently. The captain of the guard is named Jim, in this life, she finds out. They dance in the school gym.

A stupid, _fake_ photo should not upset her this badly, and yet, it does. She's unsettled, and she wonders that if this vision of her false double is a harbinger of ill fortune, of _death. _

Then Belle shakes her head at herself. She's almost died so many times, that omens and evil tidings can go shove themselves up Regina's ass, thank you very much.

Instead, she takes her tea and her photo and goes on the hunt. Finding the to the living room to search through the treasures and oddities of Gold's house.

Finding the phonograph (_record player _her mind corrects, in not unsurprisingly, Sidney's voice) is easy enough. The boxes of vinyl records are more difficult, but find them she does. She finds the two names mentioned in the article: "The youngsters move to the classic sounds of Louis Armstrong and Duke Ellington." The upbeat, woodwind sounds fill the parlor, as she pulls out other records, trying to find more of the same genre. She doesn't even hear him come in through the front door.

"What are you doing?"

She looks up, from where she sits on the floor surrounded by boxes and records out of their cases. Her cheeks go pink, "I think I was searching for something, but now, I'm not so sure."

He looks at her, and Belle wonders what he was like young, for at times like these, his eyes look as if they knew youth and loss. Then he smiles, "Let's see what we can find." He limps over gingerly, and shrugging out of his jacket and setting on the back of the chair before taking a seat. "Ellington, you've fine taste."

"It's all from your collection."

He nods his assent as he thumbs through the nearest box. "Ah," he says, pulling out a record, "you may find this to your liking."

She reads the cover, _Ella Fitzgerald_. They sit in silence, as Belle exchanges the records. As crackling fills the air, she asks, "How does the curse work?"

"It's complicated—as you know. Didn't take me three hundred years for nothing, m'dear." Rumpelstiltskin sighs, "Why do you ask?"

She stares at his hands, his hands that she loves, his nails look particularly shaped, as they do from time to time. She wonders vaguely if he had to stop by the shop to wash blood from them before coming home. She hands him the photo, "I don't remember this."

"Well of course you don't _remember_ it," he says, before even appraising the photo. "It didn't happen."

"I know it didn't happen, but the others. They remember things that didn't happen. Why don't I?"

He takes a piece of her hair, tucks it behind her ear, "It, _the curse_, is confused by you, love." Belle leans in to his touch, closing her eyes. "I didn't plan for you in my broken creation. I thought you were dead. You know that." Though her eyes are closed, she can feel him observing her, "But that doesn't answer your question."

"There are tasks here, nothing like the old ways—how does everyone _know_."

He's still for a moment, but then he smirks, "That I can tell you." He takes away his hand, to gesture, and Belle misses the warmth. "For every individual person, the curse supplies an approximate, how to say," he thinks for a moment, "skill set. Some have more, some less. Take for example the good princess, here the little school marm."

Belle nods at the mention of Mary Margaret.

"She had many talents, as if were, in our old land, so here, by the same token she has many abilities—though different. So," he lifts the picture, "this is simply the curse trying to give the equally talented princess another cleverness. Does that help, dearie?"

"A bit," she says.

Rumpelstiltskin nods, but does not appear convinced.

She doesn't want to worry him, because, she does worry him. She knows she does, with more frequency than she'd like, but one isn't locked up for thirty years without a bit of mental backlash every so (_too_) often. So she smiles, and takes the needle off the turntable. "Doesn't matter. The curse is just a means to an end, like we've talked about, right?" He nods again, but her love isn't looking at her, in his own head, thoughtful. Well, Belle knows how to change that. She reaches a hand so he can help her stand, "To bed then?"

* * *

><p>The night, Belle enters Sidney's apartment without knocking, as usual, for he leaves the door unlocked on the days of their cooking lessons, but what she finds surprises her. "Sidney?"<p>

The table is pushed back against the wall, the man himself is on the floor rolling up that Persian rug, she's more than once, wondered if they could ride. He looks up smiling, "Hey, Rose."

"What are doing?"

He stands up, and pulls out a chair, motioning for Belle to take a seat. "I had a thought," the reporter says, wearing the look that she knows as the one meaning he's tracking down a break in a story—_reporting, _just one of his curse-given skills. He continues to answer her as he goes first to his room and then to the kitchen, "You know how you said you don't remember much from _before_?" He comes back into the living room, setting two things on the table, a box and a bottle. "Well, I had an idea on how we can help you get your memories back."

_Oh godsforbid._ "Sidney, that's very sweet, but I don't think there's much hope for that."

He picks up the bottle, but looking around, sets it back down and leaves for the kitchen once again. He comes back with two shot glasses. "I had a feeling you'd say that." He takes a seat and motions again for her to join him. She does so, though tentatively. He starts rolling up his shirtsleeves, as he looks at what shoes she wears—kitchen heel, mary-janes. "Those don't have rubber soles, do they?"

She lifts a foot, to look at the bottom of her shoe. "No, why?" Belle asks, looking from him to her shoes to the bottle on the table. Vodka, what _has_ she gotten herself into?

"Good." He takes the box from the table and sets it on the ground in front of him. Taking off the lid, he reveals a pair of very shiny black dress shoes. He exchanges the pair he's wearing for the _dance_ shoes. "Can't swing dance with rubber soles."

"Sidney, I can't swing dance."

"Sure you can—we both saw that photo."

"Yes, but," she laughs, wondering however to explain what didn't happen. "I don't _remember_."

"You don't remember," he says pointing a finger at her, "But your feet do." Sidney stands, and pours out two shots, passing one over to her, "Here. This'll loosen you up."

She holds the tiny glass with a look of confusion. "Alcohol isn't going to _magically_ turn the two of us into dancers."

He frowns at her, with a look he usually reserves for the Sheriff Swan's retreating back. "For your information, sure, it's been a while, but I know how to dance. My mother taught me."

_No, your mother's been dead in the Levant from that plague the traders brought the summer of your fifteenth year; she was your father's second wife, and after you ran away from home—right into a fairy with an offset moral compass. _

"I haven't had a dance partner in ages, and we both know you sure as hell don't have one."

"Hey, that's unkind."

"No, it's _true." _He rolls his eyes, at Belle's incredulous expression, at his mentioning of Gold's limp. "All girls want to dance. Come on, Rose, admit it, you want to give it a go."

Sadly, he's _right_. She does want to have a try at this. In the photo it had looked fun; _she_ had looked fun. Not to mention, that Belle remembers her mind playing over a similar dream from _before_—fantasies of feasts and dresses and her odd, yet alluring, master twirling her around a ballroom. This little dream occurred after, Rumpelstiltskin had once come back in his formal attire, and she'd said something of missing parties. He'd replied something about the nasty business of court women and too many buttons and ties, and _why-ever would you want to go to something like that, dearie_, and of course, in this world, dancing wasn't really an option, as Sidney had not-so tactfully pointed out.

But they are in dangerous territory, first with mentioning Gold, and second there will be too many questions that go unanswered, when Belle's feet don't remember the ability that the curse never bestowed.

Seeing that his friend is no closer to agreeing to this little plan, the reporter tries a different angle. He leans in close to continue—going to so far as to use the c-word, "Look, I know it sounds_ crazy_, but memories, they stay with you, even if we don't know they're there. It's in you, somewhere. You just got to be brave enough to go looking."

Belle chances a look to the mirror still hanging on the far wall, and truly she wants to try. As always, she wants to be brave. "Okay, let's try." If only to be proven wrong.

"That a girl." He taps his glass against her own and throws it back without difficultly.

She picks up her own glass as he watches. _Why the hell not_, she thinks, and takes the shot, coughing only a little.

Sidney pulls her to her feet. "Okay, here's the basic step." He shows her the side-to-side and then back-to-front movements. "Yeah, like that. Keep practicing." He leaves her and turns on his stereo to play music similar to what she had listened to at home, but with a slightly faster beat.

The steps are strange, certainly _nothing_ like the court dances she'd learned as a young girl. However, they do not feel completely foreign to her limbs.

Her friend comes back, and takes her hands, so they facing one another. They practice simple steps, letting her get used to the rythym, or more likely, waiting for the alcohol to hit their systems, but when the song changes, Sidney smirks. "Follow my lead," he says.

Rose's eyes go wide, as he lifts his arm, twirling and turning her without warning. She squeals in surprise, but doesn't miss a beat, her feet knowing _exactly_ what to do.

When he brings her back to the basic step, he's grinning and so is she. "I told you Rose. I told you."

* * *

><p>She enters the house late, sweaty, with sore feet and hair wild. She, or truly, <em>her feet<em>, had remembered a lot. Twists and turns, and even a small toss. Anything Sidney could manage, her body could match.

It had been an immeasurable amount of _fun_.

Belle had had just as much fun as her doppelganger, and she came home smiling wide. She slips off her shoes, one and then the other, balancing on the small table by the door, as she rubs her foot. Looking it over, she's glad to see she has no blisters, only a little pain. Worth it of course, for the enjoyment she'd had.

"Belle?"

She looks up, and smiles wider still, "Rum."

He takes in her unkempt look and smirks, saying, "I'd ask where you've been, but I believe we've exhausted that topic." The words bear no ill will, only jest.

She laughs a little at them. He extends a hand to her, which she takes without thought. "Where are you taking me, hm?"

"Oh, you'll see," Rumpelstiltskin says, leading her to the parlor. He leads her to the center of the room. The records and boxes have all been put neatly to the side, beneath the coffee table. He lets go of her hand and limps to the shelf on the far wall, where the record player now sits. He turns it on and a slow piano begins to play, followed by a woman's low alto.

The sound causes Belle to tilt her head and gently grin. "What is this? It's lovely."

"A woman, called Billie Holiday." He smirks and approaches her slowly. "I had a feeling you might enjoy this one."

"And why is that?" she asks, reaching to take back his hand.

"Because, dear, this isn't one of mine."

"Oh? From the shop?"

"Oh no, dearie," Rumpelstiltskin sets his cane against a nearby chair, so both his hands can go about her waist. The nearness, as always, centers Belle, but also, this time gives her the hazy feeling of floating. "This record did not come from my shop."

She laughs, slipping her hands around his neck, "Are you going to tell me where you got it, in that case?"

He leans down to whisper in her ear, "You might say, I stole it,"

"I should have guessed as much," she scolds, but there's no bite to it.

"But then is it stealing, if it's to give back to the true owner?" he asks, pulling back to look her in the eye. "I _lifted _it from your room—the room the curse built for you."

Belle closes her eyes and listens harder. Yes, she thinks, if she was truly from this place, she'd have listened to something like this, on rainy days or on sentimental nights with a lover. _Like tonight_. "I like it," she says; it's both a confirmation and a confession. "What about you?"

He smiles, "I do, that said, it is improved upon greatly by the company with which it is shared." He pulls her snug against him, and they kiss to the gently.

After the kiss, they he sways with her, hardly moving—for it's as much movement as his leg will endure, and even with only this, he'll be sore tomorrow, though he won't regret this.

As they rock back and forth, for just an instant, Belle's heart tightens and she thinks that this happiness, this joy, is just a reprieve, and that pain is not far behind. Tragedy hard upon their heels—they just haven't heard the black carriage, but then she brushes it off, for there are no towers here, no curses being manufactured.

What's more dark thoughts call out to the dark, beckoning—_tempting_—it; Belle will have no dark thoughts like that in their home.

So they move together, enjoying the glow of the lamps, the warmth of their bodies, and the sound of the antique phonograph.

* * *

><p>"Sidney, you took this."<p>

"Nope, didn't take that one." He leans over to look at the photo again, some high school fundraiser write-up.

He had brought the box up to the rooftop a few days ago, filled with yearbooks and newspaper clippings. "I thought it might, oh, I don't know, help, a little," Sidney had told her.

He was right, but he was also wrong. Ever the mirror, he's shows Belle herself. It helps, and yet it doesn't. Because these aren't her. They are shades. They are dress-up, costume play. They are a shadow of what could have been, but never was.

It's fun however; Belle can't deny that it's fun, as absorbing as a book that draws you in so deep you forget where you are, unable to hear the sounds around you, and Belle's always been an avid reader.

"No, look," she points to the small line of text that credits _Sidney Glass_ with having taken the photograph.

He plucks it from her hands, looking confused and a little disturbed. After a few minutes, he shrugs, "Huh, guess I am getting old."

_No, you're just under the influence of a very powerful curse_. She sighs, turning back to the old yearbook she'd been thumbing through, and suddenly, there, in the background, is her father.

She reaches up to scratch her head, and if her hand brushes past her eye, it certainly isn't because she's tearing up. No, she's _not_ crying.

The shadows play at something very close to what once-was-real. She's fishing, sitting in her father's lap, though it's not in a moat and they don't wear robes and tokens of their royal line, it's _them_. Some event at the elementary school that never happened, but, what Belle wonders, is how can they look so happy when it never occurred?

She's so absorbed, she doesn't even see that Sidney has leaned in close, observing behind her shoulder. "So, you and your dad?"

Belle turns the page. "He locked me away, needless to say, we're not close."

"Do you miss him?"

"No," she says automatically. It's the first Belle has ever lied to him.

* * *

><p>That evening, she plucks Mr. Gold's cell phone from his jacket pocket, as she sorts out loads of laundry. Her lover is in the shower.<p>

He'll never need to know, for she can clear the cellular history when she's finished. Not that it would matter if he knew, but the option of secrecy comforts her all the same. Belle quiets and listens to ensure that the shower water is still running, before dialing, first having pressed the necessary numbers, star sixty-seven, for secrecy, Sidney having taught her as much.

Belle listens face impassive, biting at her index fingernail.

"Larry? Is that you? Christ you've dialed me again by sitting on your phone haven't you?" The voice sounds exasperated. The voice sounds exactly as she remembers.

"Larry!" her father hollers. Moe French yells the name, over and over, slow and impatient.

Belle listens; Australia, what a lark. He'd sounded much like this whenever a knight had forgotten to oil his sword or misplaced a ledger. Not with her, never with her.

Her heart softens, but then clenches up, tight and cold as stone once again. As her father yells a meaningless name into a shadow of a life, she misses him as if her were dead. She wonders if that's how he missed her for the past three decades (or if that was the inheritance of only one man in Storybrooke).

* * *

><p>They are on the roof when she asks him, pointing to the restaurant further down the Main Street strip, "What's Thai food like?"<p>

Sidney looks up and takes in her pointing finger, in the direction of the small dark La Tandoor, the towns one Thai eatery and second Asian cuisine option in the bustling metropolis that is Storybrooke. "It's fantastic."

"Really?"

"Yeah. Like a taste of spicy heaven."

"Can we make it?"

"Absolutely not."

"What? Why not?"

"The smell. Real strong." Sidney speaks the statements between bites, finishing off his sandwich, "Never comes out."

"Please." She looks up at him with the face that usually precedes getting exactly what she wants.

Sidney scoffs, "Nice try, but that face doesn't work on friends, just boyfriends." He laughs, as her face falls. "Why don't you have Gold take you out for Thai food?" He gestures with his fork, "Tandoor's not that far of a walk. Hell, he could even be especially pretentious if he felt like, and drive the Cadillac down the whole two blocks."

"He doesn't much like foreign food."

"Doesn't like foreign food? He _is_ foreign."

"_Foreign_ foreign food." Belle tries once more, "Why can't we just make it at your place?" she whines.

"Not going to happen, Rose." He scrunches his brow, shaking his head.

Lunch continues uneventfully. They talk of the mayoral elections—grueling and full of mud slinging, though the town has been short a massive scandal for a few days. They talk of what they will make the next day for dinner, chicken marsala, and what she made for herself and Mr. Gold most recently, a basic stir-fry. They're just packing up their Tupperware, when Belle says offhandedly, "I called my father."

"Oh yeah? What did he say?"

"He yelled at Larry to stop accidentally dialing his cellular number."

"What?"

"I didn't _say_ anything. I simply called."

"Ah, Rose, that has a name. We call it a prank call." He says, reproachfully. He adds after a few moments, "You okay?" Sidney thinks for the first time in weeks about ledges and the wisdom of bringing her up here.

She shrugs. "Is anyone ever okay?"

He chuckles, "Ain't that the truth." The words sound final, but as usual, Sidney has something up his sleeve—Rose does that to him, always making him think and act. He feels as if he has to protect her, and it worries him, but what worries him more is how _little_ the tendency—no, it's a very strong impulse—doesn't worry him. He knows he should watch out for this new tick of his more closely, but it's election season and his desk is overflowing, and really, how does someone watch out for something so natural like following a trail or a camera with automatic focusing?

* * *

><p>They are making butternut squash risotto when Sidney gets the call. Belle knows instantly that something's wrong. He almost drops the knife from where he'd been chopping red onion, lettuce, spinach and strawberries for their summer salad, and instantly, he's alive with motion.<p>

Sometimes, it still shocks Belle to see him carrying a body.

"Yes, of course." He paces to and fro in the kitchen. "I understand. I'll be right there. On my way now." He's already grabbing his wallet, slipping it into his back pocket, before unrolling his shirts sleeves with shaking hands.

Belle knows without having to be told that the queen has called upon him, her most loyal servant.

Slipping on his suit jacket in light beige, (a good color for him, she thinks) he says, "Rose, something's come up. I got to run, an emergency, you see." He's positively frantic. Momentarily, his eyes dart up to the top cabinet, but then back to her. "Can you, I mean, do you think you can let yourself out?" It's not even a question, and he's already walking to the door. "Just turn off the fire, and I'll clean it all up when I get home. Thanks. See you tomorrow."

And just like that. The magic mirror has run off to his blood-bound liege lord.

Belle sighs. Of course, she can't just _leave_ everything for him to return home to. She slowly starts the cleaning process, putting the separate ingredients into Tupperware and lining them up on the shelves inside the refrigerator—it would all keep for some other night, after all.

When she's put everything away and done a quick load of dishes, Belle walks into the living room to turn off Sidney's stereo system. The upbeat jazz music that had seemed so festive not half an hour ago now seems gloomy and unsettling. As silence fills the sterile, unlived-in apartment (and now Belle understands why, upon first entering, she'd felt the place had so little life—with Sidney always running about at the beck and call of Regina and her life, how could he be expected to live and fill his own at the same time?) her eyes are drawn again to that gilded mirror hanging on the far wall.

She walks up to it and takes in what she sees. The woman staring back at her has dark circles below her, albeit rather nice, blue eyes. Thirty years of dark circles are hard gotten rid of in just a few months.

As she examines her complexion in the mirror, she briefly wonders if the queen knows that she's here, but Belle rather thinks if the queen knew, there'd be hell to pay.

Thirty years lost to the queen. Thirty years she'd never get back, Belle thinks, rubbing at the three prominent wrinkles in her forehead.

Thirty years wasted, but then why waste any more? Thirty years she certainly wouldn't get back by staring into an un-enchanted looking glass. What's more, she suddenly has an idea.

Belle smiles hurrying back into the kitchen—doesn't even look to see her appearance as she does so. She plucks up the opened, half-bottle of wine that she'd brought to share over dinner. She corks the bottle tight as she can and slips it into her purse. This would be Sidney's penance and payment for running out on her. She chuckles at the thought.

Belle slips out and heads back to the downtown. As she walks, she feels rather illicit, having an open container concealed. What would Emma say—though Belle knows most likely, their savior would ask for some, but that was rather beside the point. Best not to run into the good sheriff, for she has plans for this bottle.

She goes across town to Ruby and her grandmother's diner, entering by the backdoor. She works her way toward the kitchen, with as much stealth as the town lunatic with an open bottle of wine in her purse can manage. Luckily, her friend (for the wild wolf-girl befriended her not long ago, commenting on Belle's haircut. They'd gotten on swimmingly ever since, which was a relief to both men in her life) is just passing by, returning with an empty tray, having just delivered a meal.

"Ruby," she whispers, grinning.

"Hey, Rose!" the waitress says, her voice carrying.

"Shh!" Belle orders. She grabs her friend's wrist and pulls her into the nearby laundry room.

"Why is there wine in your bag?"

She laughs, in spite of herself, "Because I'm a thief, that's why."

"Fine by me, just don't let my granny see you."

"Why I came in through the back, silly. Can you do me a favor?" Ruby nods. "Get Gold for me, would you?"

"Oh, sweetie, he isn't here."

Belle looks surprised, for her lover usually takes dinner at the diner on nights when she isn't home, if he eats at all. "That's strange. You're sure?"

"I can check again." The younger girl goes out, but comes back after a quick peak into the main room. "Nope, your guy's not here. Sorry, Rose."

"It's not problem. Thank you for looking."

"No worries." Ruby's smile perks up, "So, you going to share some of that, master thief?"

Belle bats her friend's hand away gently, "No, I have plans for this, but I'll see you later, okay?"

"Good luck with finding your man, and with _plans_," Ruby winks.

Belle would chuckle at Ruby's insinuation, but she can't help the minor feeling of concern at her lover's absence from the diner. She pushes the feeling down, as she walks across the street, but it keeps creeping back up her spine, unbidden.

She passes the flower shop on her way to the pawnshop; she doesn't look inside.

As Belle approaches Gold's shop, she can see the lights are out. Not strange, for it is late in the evening. She walks up, cupping her hands against the glass to block out the setting sun, but she can't see her love behind the front desk.

Perhaps he's in the back, Belle thinks. She walks around and takes out her keys to unlock the backdoor—for there's not a key he does not share with her. "Rum?" she yells, entering the backroom. "You still here?" It's dark in his workroom. She finds a half varnished jewelry box drying on his desk atop the drying rack, but no workman to go with it.

Belle sighs; she'd been hoping something else entirely would be finished on that desk. Home would have to do as their venue. Not a problem there. Belle shrugs, against the disappointment—and against that damn creeping feeling, locking up and heading for their home.

She makes it faster than usual, just a touch of sweat beginning to gather between her shoulder blades. She enters through the kitchen door, knocking off her shoes. "I'm home," she yells, dropping her purse and keys, aiming for the countertop but finding the floor.

Silence.

"Love?" she calls out again, a little bit of frenzy entering her voice, the likes of which she hasn't felt since those first days out of the dungeon (Hospital. _Hospital_). She hardly remembers those days, only that feeling. That, and the fact that her love never left her side. She remembers clutching his hands during those dark days, when he was never the first to let go this time.

Nothing.

"Rumpelstiltskin?" She yells. Of course, there is no reply, and suddenly it's all too much. Too many things have come together. Sidney' runs off and her Rumpelstiltskin is nowhere to be found, and perhaps the queen saw her in that mirror after all, but that's all ridiculous. That can't possibly be.

Belle's hands tingle and she tries to follow Archie's advice to decrease and slow her breathing, but she feels she already knows the truth, and that only means an increase in breath. She feels the need to run (not Archie's advice) and if so she'll need _all her breaths_.

But she needn't run, no one's chasing her, no huntsman without a heart, no knights waiting or a woman in black, mad over a mad girl out the window. Nothing hunting nor hurting her. Nothing but fear.

Where can he be? When will she see him?

Calm. Calm, she thinks, but already there's the blindness and the fear and the tingles in her hands and feet, and the room is positively shrinking.

She squeezes her eyes shut. _Think_, where can he be? Then, she remembers one last place. Her clenched hands open and clench again. Calm. Calm, she tells herself. Calm like Archie says. She can call. But that'll take too long. No phone in the cabin. And the rooms so small, her fingers, might just hit all the buttons.

Calm. Calm.

_No, can't calm. Run. _

She's out the door in a flash. Across the grass, through two backyards and onto a backstreet. Her racing mind slows only once, from predicting residential suburbia on auto-pilot to find the quickest way to where she's going. Her mind slows only when it registers that Sneezy lives just _there_—as she hops over his yellow sprinkler system. Hope he'll still fill my prescriptions next week, she thinks, but then she's past his little house.

Not ten minutes more, and she's in No Man's Land, their forest, for here be dragons off the charted portions of the map, she remembers learning as a little princess.

It's getting dark, but she knows the trail well. He took her here, that first night, away from the queen's clutches and Emma's furrowed-soldier brow. He'll be there. He has to be there.

Belle tops the hill and there it is, his cabin in the woods. The place where he beat her father, where he found and lost his grown son in the space of less than an hour, where he hid her from the world, the dangerous world. Maybe, she thinks, I'll find him this time.

She sprints the final, one hundred meters, and the curse tells her this means something, but she brushes it away, no time for the work of her lover's hands, just for his.

She spots Gold's Cadillac in the driveway, and she's ecstatic. She runs all the faster. Silly, silly Belle. Her silly mad spell was all for naught.

She slows to a pained walk, for her heart and limbs beat painfully. As she tries to slow her panting, she realizes something. There are no lights on, except the reflected twilight in the windows.

_No matter, _she thinks, reaching for the door. She pulls on the handle, but it does not open at her touch. She yanks again, and of course, she hasn't brought her keys, dropped and forgotten on the kitchen floor, with her shoes. Not that it would matter, when she knows the place will be empty.

Belle falls to a heap on the stoop. She begins to realize she's drenched in sweat, with soiled and scraped up feet. She can't catch her breath, and it's nothing to do with the run. It's because she knows she must stand up. She must stand up on her own.

She must stand up, because now, she's so much farther to go, back to the queen's stronghold, to steal something (_because you're something precious, meant just for him_, the woman of the road had whispered, smoothing dirty hair before starting to work on the poor girl again, answering the wrenched sob of _why_ she'd drawn from Belle's lips).

She has to stand, though she's no knight and she wears no armor, only ruined work slacks and a poet's blouse, in peach. This time, I'll save him, Belle thinks. I'll be the savior. She turns to start running again (to, not from—the minute detail making all the difference).

"Belle?" the words are positively shocked.

She turns and there he is, cane and shovel in hand. Limping around the backside of his Cadillac, from behind the cabin. He's in his work apron.

She can't help lose a few tears, but she's so _happy. _"Everywhere," Belle tells him, beaming, "Everywhere I looked for you, I struck out." She's no idea the meaning of her words, only that she means every single one of them.

That wakes up her trickster. He drops the shovel he'd been holding and limps as fast as his leg will carry him. When he can reach, he takes her face into his hands and kisses her hard as possible, their teeth clank, because he's desperate and she's still smiling, and she just can't stop. They'll both have swollen lips tomorrow. The thought makes her smile all the more.

When they break apart, gasping for air, Rumpelstiltskin pulls back to appraise her, like this antiques—she's certainly old enough.

He wipes at her tears, letting his hands fall to her wrists; there's no need to explain, because he's been found, and she was going to save him, and there's no one on the road, at this time of day (everyone's at dinner).

Belle sees him grimace at the sight of her bare feet. She brushes his hair behind his ear, and she smiles, because she knows a secret, that isn't quite so secret anymore. She knows that he knows, that she'd fight towers, and queens, and heartless soldiers for him. Just ask the mirror, he saw it all, from here to Arabia to Main Street and back again. Saw it all, Belle thinks, but doesn't say, because her lover knows well enough.

"Home?" he says, solemnly.

She smiles, "Home." He leads her to the car. Opens the door for her and returns to the driver's side. He doesn't bother putting away the shovel. Rumpelstiltskin sits buckles his eat belt, but still does not ignite the car. He turns to her, "This is my fault," he says, hands on the wheel, looking straight ahead. "I had business, in the woods." He lets go and turns to her, "Tomorrow, there's something I'll show you. Because I trust you. More than anything."

Belle blinks and nods and _smiles_, and she's not crazy. She simply stopped running in the wrong direction. So has he, apparently.

Here and now, there are no more secrets between them. No spinning wheels or towers or interrogations, and time itself has converged, just for them, Belle thinks.

She tilts her head, and then she smiles. "I know about the dagger."

Again, her lover wears complete shock.

"I found it once, and I am rather well-read. I'd heard the stories of the first Ogre War." She shrugs, patting his arm. "You were hiding it somewhere new?" She reaches a dirty hand to run through his gray streaks.

He nods. "I love you. I always loved you," he says, not for the first time. Not for the millionth.

Belle treasures it all the same. She kisses him slow and deep.

When she pulls back, she can see in Rumpelstiltskin's eyes, that her sopping shirt gives him the perfect view of her chest. She sees the want in him, and she also sees it tempered by what it now means for all that torture and questioning she endured (_Where is it hidden, _the queen asked every time. _I don't know what you're talking about_, Belle had replied, before she stopped answering all together).

She smiles at his lust, because she wants it too. She leans farther over the center console and cup holder of his dark Cadillac and kisses him sweetly, as his hand ghosts over her breast, so very lightly—he was a spinner with spinner's hands, after all.

"Take me home she says." Make love to me, her smile adds.

His Belle is bold tonight, and he nods (all he's done tonight, dig and nod), before letting her loose to start the car. The sun sets. The weather stays fair. They make it home without delay.

* * *

><p>Upon entering their house, Belle sees the evening might still go awry, yet.<p>

Gold bends down to pick up her discarded keys, taking in the unlocked door, the flung pair of shoes and the purse lying open on the floor. He turns to look at her with that look of self-flagellation he knows so well.

None of this, she thinks. Not tonight. Belle walks over, taking the keys from his hand, "It's alright. It's not your fault. It's hers."

He looks pained, but she places a quick peck on his lips to shut him up, and she understands that he's flustered and that she went just a touch crazy this afternoon. Deflecting self-denial and punishment never did come easy for him, but he's trying, for her sake. "I'll just go, run you a bath." He limps up the stairs and she stays, locking up the door, lining up her shoes against the wall, and hanging the keys on the rack above the umbrella stand. She bends over, wincing just a little over that old injury—now they can both tell when the rain's coming—to pick up her purse.

The wine.

Belle had completely forgotten her little plan during her earlier fit, She'd forgotten, but now she has another lovely plan. No time like the present—as they both well know. She sets the bottle on the countertop, before hurrying to the laundry room. There, she strips off the soiled mess of a destroyed work outfit, tossing it in the hamper. Though, rightly, more than likely it will go in the trash.

She tiptoes up the steps to their room, grinning like the court fool on Michaelmass. The water's loud and shockingly, she's not tripped, so her lover has no idea, she stands behind him stark naked. He sits on the toilet seat, watching the water rise, cane against the sink.

Silently, she slips her sticky arms around his shoulders, reaching to turn off the faucet. "That's plenty for two, don't you think?"

"Belle," he whispers, and she can't tell if it's a refusal or a plea.

"Shh," she coos. "Don't leave me alone," Belle whispers in his ear, like those first days and nights, but yet oh so very different. She tugs off his jacket.

"Never," he answers in kind, turning his head around to kiss her.

* * *

><p>They sit in his study, eating frozen pizza by the slice. Belle now knows why the modern convenience is so popular—no interruptions by bothersome delivery persons.<p>

She sits on his ottoman, leaning back against the drawers of his desk, feet propped up on his good leg. He absently rubs over the scar below her knee. They pass her stolen wine bottle back and forth between them, not bothering with glasses.

They're in the middle of a discussion about the nature of the curse he's crafted. Belle giggles, "And you couldn't have thought of even slightly better names? I mean come on: Gold, French, Rose, Mills."

Her lover plucks the bottle her hands. "Aye, dearie, but you must remember, I wasn't the one who came up with that ridiculous roster." He doesn't mention the queen by name; they need not let her chill in to their warm, happy night. Rumpelstiltskin finishes the last of it, because she needs no more, having gone rosy in the cheeks, but she's clean and still smiling, so he imagines she won't mind overmuch.

He scans his eyes across the label. "This isn't bad. Spanish, eh? Wherever did you get it?" he asks.

"The grocer's, on my way home."

Raising an eyebrow, he runs his thumb across the bottom of the bottle. "Hm, interesting."

"What?" she laughs.

He checks over his thumb, before sticking it on his mouth, tasting whatever he's found. "Flour, I believe, and oil, olive, if I'm not mistaken." He sets the bottle on his desk, but holds Belle's eye the whole time. "Most peculiar. Whatever could this mean?"

She shrugs nonchalantly, letting the shirt of his she wears gap, in an attempt to distract her Rumpelstiltskin. "George's soldier's who work the night shift at the grocer's make for messy shelf-stockers?"

He smiles at her, "Yes, that must be it."

* * *

><p>He sends her a pot of Dahlia the next day.<p>

_Forever thine_, her florist daughter's mind knows and her body and heart reminds is the deepest of truths.

She gazes longingly at the bright bouquet, until Sidney can't take it any longer. "Please, I'm begging you, stop it."

"Stop what?" she asks, all grins.

"That goo-goo-eyed dolly look." He motions a finger to her overall expression. "It's tells me way more than I ever wanted to know about Mr. Gold's love life. And the that's not something I'd wish on my worst enemy," her friend says, and the words are close to home, but Rumpelstiltskin, _the man_, is closer, so Belle sticks her tongue out, plucks a flower from the bunch for her best friend, slipping it into his lapel pocket.

Sidney will take it out before leaving, she knows, but for the day, it's a nice touch. She doesn't ask about last night, and things stay as they are, for a little while longer.

* * *

><p>Belle arrives a few days later to a post it note on her desk taped to the bottom of his most recent clipping, <em>Discretionary Caution Advised<em>, an article on Midas' further monetary scandals. She takes Sidney's meaning instantly. The note itself is brief and to the point, "Arrive at La Tandoor 10 after," in Sidney's messy scrawl. Belle can't hold in a little squeal at the prospect.

The morning drags on, with her thoughts on their lunchtime adventure. She doesn't have a chance to speak with Sidney, since his re-admittance to the Daily Mirror and subsequent demotion from Chief Editor, he's been working double to win back the title. She sees him fly in and out of her sight all day, always on the periphery, making her feel like the mirror, always watching.

Straight up noon, she takes a bit of paperwork and gets ready to leave. Instead of the front door, she exits through the back, so as to avoid any nosy pawnbrokers. Sidney did ask nicely, after all. Walking the few blocks to the restaurant, she slips into the dark, one room place—yes, he'd been right, the smell is strong, but made her mouth water—looking around for him, but he'd yet to arrive.

She takes a seat and the offered menu, antsy. For all the time she'd spent alone, one would think Belle would have gotten used to it by now.

She waits ten minutes, before beginning to wonder if something happened, a break in a story, or possibly something more sinister. However, eighteen minutes late, Sidney arrives, through the doorway to the kitchen, looking around, like a man on the run. He's in such a fit he's forgotten to take off his press badge.

"Covering a food poisoning scandal?" she asks, as he slips into the booth across from her.

He stares at her confused, but puts a hand to his chest, after she points to his badge. "Oh. Shit," he says, taking it off. "Slipped my mind."

Sidney orders for them, fast and frantic. She gets what he calls Pad Thai noodles, and he gets something she's no idea as to its contents. The food is different, but quite good, Belle thinks. After its arrival, and the fact that the world apocalypse has yet to occur, Sidney's nerves unravel and they find their rooftop dynamic.

When the bill comes, he refuses to let her pay. "I got it," he says.

"Please, I insist. It's the least I can do since you brought me here."

"Much as I'd like to use Gold's cash, there's no way I'm letting you pay."

She looks up at him with the softest, sweetest look she can imagine. "Sidney, please," she says, in that voice that, except that one time earlier this week, usually mean's things are about to go her way.

Sidney smirks, "That may work on Daddy Warbucks, but not on me." He takes in her angry and confused face, "Warbucks, from the comic strip? Little Orphan Annie? Christ, kid, look it up. There's a musical—you should love that. Anyway, don't give me that look, it was a joke."

The description sounded vaguely familiar and scrapped off the more unpalatable ideas that had come to mind from the name he'd called her love. "I do like musicals," she offers.

"'Course you do." He pulls the hand holding the check out of reach, when she tries to grab at it one last time. "Let me shoot straight with you, Rose. It makes a man feel like a man when he pays. Haven't paid for woman's meal in a while. Just let me." He raises his eyebrows in question, and she nods acquiescing. "Great." He stands and makes his way over to the cash register.

In his absence, she thinks over his words. Belle assumes he can only mean the queen. _You didn't need a meal for quite some time_, she thinks, but that's all water under the Troll Bridge or rooms behind the mirror's line of sight, apparently.

Sidney comes back and they sit for a few minutes more, finishing up their last bites. As Belle gathers up her things, she notices that Sidney is staring through the obscured windows to their spot, behind her head. She turns, "What is it?"

"Why'd you jump, Rose?"

She doesn't start—her hand only slowly slips to the spot just below her knee. Sidney looks intently, not at her, but the rooftop still. He always could see right through her; she wonders just how much of the truth the shadows gloss over. "Because it was my choice to make, and I thought it was the proper one," she says, honestly. Belle looks up, expecting pity, but she sees an expression of understanding reflected back in the face of her friend. "I didn't have many, but I had that one." She rubs the raised, ugly skin, below her knee (ironically, the right).

"Did _he_ make you do it?"

"No," she says.

"But he had something to do with it," he prompts, and this is the all-seeing Sidney, who always gets his scoop. This is the mirror that can see right through skin and lies and can only be hidden by thick, fabric drapings.

"Not the way you're thinking."

She expects Sidney to make an accusing purse of his mouth, but instead he only nods. "We should get back." The pair walks back to the office together, neither one thinking anything of it.

* * *

><p>"You took lunch with Sidney Glass, of the Daily Mirror."<p>

"Hm?" She turns, and there her lover stands in the (their) kitchen doorway. "Oh, yes I did. We're work associates." Belle looks at him as if his tone is nothing out of the ordinary, as if he's asking how her day was, or what's for supper (_rosemary chicken with a Caesar salad and wine—if that is, he's remembered to pick up a bottle on his way home, this time_).

"So I gathered." Gold sighs—she has come to learn that though he likes his little trickster games, he doesn't _always_ enjoy extracting information. "And may I ask, why?"

"You may." No, she wasn't going to make this easy on him. She doesn't even look at him, instead, checking on the chicken in the oven.

"And do you plan on answering? Or must I bribe you?"

Belle smirks, "How about we make a deal?" She closes the oven; the chicken's coming along nicely. "_If_ you brought home the wine like I asked you to, I'll tell you for nothing,_ but_ if you forgot—well, then it'll cost you something."

Gold's empty handed, and Belle thinks she has him right where she wants him (well, _getting there_), and that the cost of her answer will in all likelihood amount to a burned and forgotten chicken and over-priced Chinese delivery in a few hours, after they've exhausted themselves, but then her love puts her dreaming to an end. He smirks, pulling a slim, hidden bottle of Merlot from where he'd held it within his suit jacket. He sets it on the table, "Now. Talk."

Belle sighs—after dinner, in that case. "If you must know, I like him. We're friends."

"_Friends_?"

"Yes, friends. What's so hard to believe about that?" She puts her hands on her waist, trying to look intimidating; the pink-frilled apron doesn't help.

"Of all the bloody citizens in this damn town, you choose that slippery fish." But of course she has, because she's his Belle, and even with a new name and clothing she's still _her_. He sighs at his princess, wearing pink cheeks, and pink apron, in his pink house. Pink, pink, pink. All that color was clouding her judgment, and his too for that matter.

He continues, trying to keep his voice even, "_Belle_, he's up to something."

"I'd rather you befriend anyone other than the queen's dog. The good sheriff, or you could actually have a go at that fake friendship you were playing at with the Miss Blanchard."

"Really, you'd rather anyone?" she says, sardonically. "Then you won't mind that Regina and I are getting coffee tomorrow?"

She turns, to see his face. It doesn't disappoint, jaw set in a tight grimace. "A quip, love." She walks over and kisses the side of his still frowning mouth.

He sighs, but wraps his hands around her waist, pulling her closer. "Your sarcasm's improving, dear," Gold murmurs into her hair, placing a kiss in her curls.

She giggles, "You really think so?"

"Truly." She sighs contentedly, as he toys with her hair. "At least this solves the great mystery of where you've been disappearing to, Tuesdays and Thursdays."

"See, that's proof. He's been giving me cooking lessons."

"So I gathered. He's not a sly one, Regina's dog."

"What do you say that for?"

"Well, for one, the jambalaya did certainly narrow down my list of suspects."

Belle looks up at him, completely at a loss for his meaning. Rumpelstiltskin runs a thumb over her cheek, and he can't help but chuckle a little at his innocent little Belle. "It would seem, even my curse hardly knows what to do with you."

She decides she'll have to ask Sidney tomorrow what her significant other means, but then sighs, because that's the whole point. These two men, Gold and Glass, mean so much to her, and she trusts them both deeply. How can she explain that to Rumpelstiltskin, the man who only knows her friend as the betraying mirror, responsible for the discovery of the monster's weakness in the first place?

Belle decides, like most of the time, especially where true love is involved, to ere on the side of honesty. She pulls back and goes to check on the status of the chicken once again. "I knew him, from _before_." The chicken's fine. She closes the oven door, but does not turn, waiting on her Mr. Gold.

"I wondered."

"He was kind to me." Belle turns and offers a shrug. Explaining one's grip on tentative sanity in lives past is never easy. "He was my only friend, in the tower."

He opens his arms and she returns to them. He rests his chin on top of her head and rubs gentle circles into her back. What Rumpelstiltskin really wants to do is call bullshit, but he refrains, for his Belle's sake. "Just, be careful, love." He leans down, and they kiss, softly, without being rushed, as they've become used to doing. Then, the mood turns playful, "For I think you've used up your nine lives."

"All nine, already? Are you sure it's been that many?"

"Well, needn't tempt fate, dearie."

* * *

><p>Belle knows when he's there with her and when she is alone, because it's colder and the voices in her head and the ringing in her ears worsen. The queen has revealed her hand—as she is oft to do. Bait will be the death of her Rumpelstiltskin, for they all know he loves her.<p>

Belle needs to be with the one she loves, but more than that, she needs to do the brave thing and freedom will follow, for them both. The choice is simple, really.

The emaciated girl slips through the arrow slit like a gangly, twelve year old, boy on a dare. When she knows the mirror isn't watching—out with the queen on evil errands. It's a sunny day, and she wishes she could say goodbye—but they haven't spoken sine the end of the their stories. Since she's remained silent, only speaking one word in a moment of weakness. _Why,_ she'd screamed to her majesty, Queen Regina.

But alas, he is not watching and with just one more slip—she's _falling_. It happens faster than expected, but then, it's dark and there's pain.

Belle had expected death to be more numb, but she expects, as with all things in life (and death, apparently), she'd get used to it.

* * *

><p>When she comes to, for the first time, she wishes with all her heart she were dead. Belle remains conscious just long enough to see that she is back in the tower, that the queen is with her, and that the bone in her leg juts outs just below her knee. It's color is the brightest white she's ever seen. An angry, near-foiled queen makes for a poor surgeon. Belle screams herself back to black.<p>

The second time she comes to, she knows the mirror is with her.

She does not look over to his corner, instead, she clenches her jaw and forces herself up onto her forearms, to take a look at her right leg. The stitches are large and ugly and sure to scar where the bone protruded out inhumanly. An angry, near-foiled queen makes for a poor surgeon, and certainly not one likely to take aesthetics into consideration. The scar is sure to be appalling.

"I'm sorry, princess."

Belle does not look over, instead, falling back onto her straw bed. She groans, as the jostling awakens her leg. Whatever, the queen has given her to ease her suffering is minimal at best.

For just a second, she imagines she heard the mirror make a pained sound. Must be an echo.

"I'm sorry. I was," he pauses, searching for a word to encompass even part of his meaning, "remiss."

She scoffs, because she can't help herself.

"I should not have been as absent, as I was, for that I apologize."

Belle blinks, it's the most he has addressed her personally, not through stories or questions on the history of their lands. She'd be shocked, if she wasn't trying not to cry. Or scream. Through gritted teeth, she answers, "I'm not much company these days."

"I am not used to entertaining company myself, for I have been alone most of my life."

"You're still alone," she grunts.

"I do not take your meaning, princess."

"If all you do is watch, then you're just as alone." She'd say more, but her head's swimming.

The mirror is silent for seconds or hours, Belle couldn't possibly know. "I do not simply watch, with you at least."

She _hmphs_, "Not if we don't speak."

"We will not stop speaking again, princess. I assure you."

Belle feels her cheeks getting wet, but she's without the energy to wipe away the visible weakness, "I don't have much to say."

"Fear not, I shall speak enough for the two of us."

* * *

><p>He's waited to bring it up, until he knows she's a captive audience (he doesn't know, but it's not the first time she's been his captive audience). He waits until they're making a batch of fudge. It's not easy. Requires constant stirring, and his Rose is not having a good time.<p>

And, maybe he's let himself have bit too much to drink before the meal.

"Sidney, it doesn't look right."

"Keep stirring," he says without checking on the brown liquid. He sips on his tumbler of whiskey. "So, I've been meaning to ask, kid."

His Rose looks up, hair getting a bit bigger from the steamy kitchen. "What? Did I mess it up?"

"Not the food—just keep stirring. Don't stop—I've been meaning to ask, why don't you see your dad?"

It's a question asked without malice or intent. Simply curiosity. Because that's how they've always been, asking for the sake of knowledge, without judgment or reproach, asking simply to know (and perhaps to be known, as well).

After Belle's initial shock wears off, she realizes she should have seen this question coming a mile away. She tucks a loose curl behind her ear, answering, "I told you, he put me away."

He motions to the pot, "Pick up the pace a little with it, Rose."

Sidney peaks over her shoulder at the chocolate mess. "I'm ruining it, aren't I?"

"No, you're not. Just keep at it." He takes another sip. "Look, I know you said he put you away, but I've been thinking, if Gold thought you were dead, then maybe your dad did too. I mean, how do you know?"

Belle's head snaps up to Sidney, but she turns back to her task. "Doesn't matter. He should have known. He shouldn't have given up on me."

"So you think maybe he thought you were dead too?"

"This doesn't look right," she says, shaking her head.

"It's fine. Stir. Maybe the same person who lied to Gold lied to your dad."

She shrugs, silent.

"You at least have to admit you've thought about the possibility?"

Belle's hand picks up speed, without her meaning to, the brown liquid sloshing dangerously. "Perhaps, I don't know." She puts her other hand first to her hip and then to her forehead, "Possibly. Maybe he thought I was dead too."

Sidney nods furiously, setting down his glass loudly, "See, exactly."

"What? Doesn't make any difference." She turns to the stove. "Gods, Sidney, I really think you should be the one to be doing this."

"No, it makes all the difference. What's so hard to forgive, if he thought you dead, Rose?"

Belle stomps a foot, "No, you're wrong. He was my father. He should have known!" The pot starts to sizzle with the tiny pops that precede a boil. "If he really loved me, he would have known!" She's stirring faster than ever now, refusing to look anywhere but the pot.

Sidney frowns, because even though he's brought her here, to this point. Dropped the breadcrumbs to lead her to this realization, he doesn't relish the thought of the words. He downs the rest of his drink hoping it'll give him the courage to say something he knows he shouldn't, but he's a journalist and an honest one—or _was_, once—and journalists always give an honest perspective, harsh reflections. So he says words that just might break them, "Sounds an awful lot like Gold, if you ask me, but you forgave him."

She looks at him with utter betrayal, but also like she wants to hide, because she's a secret that's just been uncovered. "It's not the same."

"How?"

"It just isn't, okay?" She looks around at anywhere, but Sidney. "Take over. It looks funny. The fire's too hot, I think, or something." Belle holds the spoon in his direction. "I don't know!"

"It's fine, kid. Don't stop stirring." Sidney gestures to the pot, wishing his glass wasn't empty. "How is it any different, that you hate your father for giving you up for dead and not Gold?" he says the question slowly, giving her time to take it in.

She's frantic, but tries to answer—it's all too much, the pot, the heat, the questions, the hate—she can't help but try to answer a question she's done her very best to ignore, "Gold, it's different. With dad's it's just so much…" she trails off. "Please," she implores, "I don't know what I'm doing. Just finish this.'

"With your dad, it's just so much easier to blame him, isn't it? Easier to hate him?"

Belle's livid. "You don't have any idea what you're talking about."

"I'm right, Rose," he says, raising his voice above hers, from where it had been even the whole of the evening. "It's easier to hate your father. Admit it."

"Yes, fine. It's easier to hate him. I hate him." She half yells, half cries. The pot chooses that moment to finally come to a boil (something about a watched pot never boiling the curse brings to mind, but Belle pushes it away), and as a drop splashes her wrist, she pulls back, spoon and all. "Fuck! Goddamnit, _fuck_. I've ruined it. It's ruined." She tosses the overlarge spoon in the sink and paces back and forth, unable to take standing still a minute longer.

Sidney takes over, turning off the fire. "Rose. Hey, hey." He goes to her and takes her by the elbows, forcing her to stop moving. "Rose, it's fine. Better than fine, actually. Ready to be poured out."

She nods, not looking at him. He moves her to sit at the kitchen table, as he pours the liquid fudge into a couple tins to cool and harden. Sidney then, pours her a glass of wine and sits down beside her. "I'm sorry, but I thought you needed to do that."

Belle nods, slowly.

"Does it make sense, what I'm saying? That it's maybe easier to put your hate on him, than on Gold?"

She nods again, toying with the stem of her glass. "Sorry I yelled, and threw the spoon."

"Hey, no big deal. Nothing to be sorry for, kid." He gets up and pours himself another drink, checking on the fudge. It looks perfect. His Rose did a fine job. "I'm not saying to hate Gold. That's not my point. I'm just saying that maybe if you can forgive one, then maybe you should think on forgiving the other." He sits back down. "I know you miss him."

"I do," she says, sniffling.

Sidney passes her a napkin. "You don't have to do anything you don't want to. It was just a thought."

Belle nods, blowing her nose. "I really didn't ruin it, did I?

He smiles at her, "No, turned out great, Rose."

* * *

><p>She approaches him that night, because they've no secrets, this time around.<p>

It's the night he goes over his books. Belle knows logically that she should wait till morning, when she's a clearer head on her shoulders and he's not full of numbers and interest rates, but she doesn't think she can hold the revelation inside her any longer. What's more, she worries if she waits till morning, she'll find reasons to wait till the evening and the day after and the day after that, until she never brings it up at all.

She brings him decaffeinated coffee to soften the blow, for it's a little joke between them.

"Can't have tea all the time, dearie," he'd said, the first time he'd substituted their teatime with coffee. She'd looked at him confused. "It's called coffee, dear, it's not half bad, either, what they've got here in this world."

"I've had coffee before," she'd replied, smirking.

"Have you now?"

Rumpelstilskin had brought her coffee once, back at the Dark Castle. He'd laughed himself silly over her sputtering upon sipping the bitter brew, but then he'd shown her how to add just the right amount of milk and sugar. It's not the most romantic of tales, but it was _theirs_.

She sets the cup and saucer on his desk. He doesn't look up, "Thank you, dear. I'll be up soon."

She waits, regretting interrupting him, preemptively, but it rather has to be this way. "Rum?"

Still, he doesn't look up. "Hm?"

Of course, he wouldn't make this any easier. "We need to talk."

That gets his attention. He flits his eyes up for a brief moment. He then jots down, presumably, the last number he'd been holding in his mind, and sits back, taking up the coffee cup. "Do we?"

"I want to see my father."

Ah, the dog has had something to do with this. He sighs, "I see.

"No, you don't."

Rumpelstiltskin slips off his reading glasses, "Then please, enlighten me."

Belle frowns. Still a bastard. A bastard she loved, but a bastard all the same. "Did he sell me, to the queen, or did he think I was dead?"

"I don't honestly know, Belle."

She nods. "I think I have to forgive him."

"No, you don't. The man shouldn't have been bargaining with you in the first place, if you'll recall."

"_No_, someone is remembering things a little differently. I'm the only who bargained for me, not my father." She says with a little too much fire.

She has him there. "What's this really all about, dearie?"

"How is my forgiving you different than him?" She doesn't look at him, instead staring at the corner. "I think, I think I'm still mad at you. Sometimes." She pauses, because she hardly knows herself at all, this feeling of a tight clench that for so long she'd connected to her father, but in fact could be connected to them both. "You should have known," the words are a whisper—an accusation, instantly, she realizes she'd been promising herself she'd never make aloud. Too late for that now, but they aren't having secrets this time.

"Yes, I should have. I should have been better for you, Belle, smarter. I'm sorry." The words are heavy and laden with eons of sorrow. They help, if only a little, if only like putting a Band-Aid on a protruding bone. The scar certainly won't be pretty.

"I know, and I forgive you, but," she drops off, at a loss for words.

He rises and walks to her, taking the lukewarm coffee mug out of her hands, he wraps her in his arms tentatively, and stronger when she does not fight him. "But what, love?"

"But why am I still angry?"

"Because it isn't that simple, dearie. Takes time."

"Will you wait?" She says, crying silently into his shirt. She wonders, if perhaps this time, she was proving the more difficult to love.

"Through this world and the next." He kisses the top of her head, all numbers forgotten. "Go, see your father if your heart desires it. Just tell me, before, hm?"

She nods into his shirt, but then, because it's been three decades, and she's more selfish in this life than the last, she tests him, "Would you go with me, if I ask you to?"

Without pause, "For you, yes, I'd go."

* * *

><p>Over the next few weeks, she calls and hangs up, oh, about a thousand times—give or take a hundred. She walks past the shop, changing her route to Sidney's to allow for a pass by the flower shop. She does not go in; her father does not come out.<p>

Neither Gold, nor Glass press her on the matter. They leave her fate to her own hands.

* * *

><p>Belle finally decides to stop by the shop after work. She enters hesitantly, oddly knowing the feel of the steps and the way door handle feels beneath her hand—it is a powerful curse, after all.<p>

"I'm sorry, but I'm about to close up for today," Her father turns, but stops, eyes wide.

"I can't stay. I'm going to see a friend, but I was wondering. That is, I came to ask, if you want to—"

"Yes," he says, in almost a bark, then softer, "yes, I do."

"But I haven't even said what I want."

"Doesn't matter, Rosie," Moe French says, and she has to hold in a cringe at the name. "Whatever you want, that's what we'll do."

She wants to ask why he didn't approach her. Why he didn't find her, _save her_. Why (_if_) he sold her. But it won't help, and it certainly won't fill this hole in her heart.

"Okay, I want dinner, I guess. Saturday. At the diner?"

He nods emphatically. "Okay, yeah, great."

It's all too simple, and it all hurts too much. So, she does what any crazy person would do, she pokes at it. "Even if I said I was bringing a date?"

Her father, who once sent out armies and now tends dying petunias (her lover was never the forgiving type), physically tenses. "Okay," he finally says with a sigh. "Whatever you want, Rose."

That gives Belle pause, her hands twitch but she feels herself nod. "I won't bring him." She rubs her neck, trying her best to hide in the crook of her elbow—was she still brave just by coming here, couldn't that have covered it for today, because she feels as if that's all she has left in her of bravery. "I just wanted to check, is all."

"I know, kiddo. It's fine."

"I have to go now." She points out the door like an idiot. "Plans, you see, but I'll see you?"

"On Saturday. I'll be there."

* * *

><p>At the diner, the father and daughter eat together.<p>

It's awkward at first, not at all helped by the fact that everyone is staring and whispering—she's half surprised Sidney isn't there shooting a photo for the paper, but knows him better than that.

However, by dessert things have eased a little. Moe makes her laugh, with a joke comparing politics and house plants, and Belle remembers what she liked most about her father, his good humor. He's never been, nor claimed to be, an overly sharp or intellectual man. His jovial manner and light humor (as well as mild gullibility) would have best suited him for the role of a second son, rather than heir, but that's all in the past, and the mix is plenty for a simple florist.

He makes her laugh, and she remembers liking him, and that's the first step toward love.

* * *

><p>They stay late into the night, the day of the election, waiting for the final results to put to print for the next day. The antiquated, cursed town must have their primary new source, after all. It's gone dark long ago, and all non-necessary hands have called it a night. When the results arrive, Belle rolls her eyes, "Oh what a shock! She wins again."<p>

Sidney is still reading over the print out, sent over straight for the mayoral office. "Closest it's ever been," he says, half conceding to his friend's insinuation, half in frustration.

"Yes, and look at all the difference it makes, she still won." She yawns, stretching. "I need to sleep."

Sidney passes the print out to another _Mirror _reporter, who scurries off to finish up the front-page layout. He motions discreetly for Belle to follow him. Once in his cubicle and out of earshot he says, "Need sleep, or a drink?" He smirks, pulling the flask from his bottom drawer.

Belle looks around, "Here, now?" Sidney often drank on the job, but Belle has yet to take him up on his numerous offers.

"Sure, why not. Come on, Rose. Live a little." He tips the flask back, but then gives his friend a sigh. "Fine. I offered to stay last to make sure the printers keep running and lock up when they're finished. Stay and help me pass the time? I'll even drive you to Gold's, how about that?"

"You really want that Chief Editor position back, don't you?" She laughs at the wicked idea, rolling her eyes. "Oh, alright, I'll stay."

* * *

><p>After the others leave, and after (enduring on Belle's part) a congratulatory call to the once again madam mayor, the two settle in, sitting on the floor, with the door to the printer room propped open to hear if anything goes amiss.<p>

Belle finds out she hates whiskey. She coughs, taking another swallow, "I don't know how you can stand this stuff."

"Not so bad once you get used to it. Here," he passes her a bottle of orange juice.

"Where'd this come from?"

"Lifted it from the boss' desk."

She slaps his arm, "Sidney! You're terrible."

"Hey, not my fault if the man doesn't have enough sense to change the locks to his office. Besides he took my job."

Belle pats his shoulder, "You'll get it back, I'm sure."

* * *

><p>An hour passes, and the flask runs out, but Sidney brings out three-fourths a bottle of whiskey from yet another bottom drawer—this man would be the death of her.<p>

After they start to work on the bottle, Belle attempts to convince Sidney they should move up to the roof. That's where he draws the line, "No way, kid."

"Why not? It's too stuffy in here."

"We couldn't hear if the printers jammed. Then we'd be in serious trouble." Not to mention Gold would kill him if she fell, or found her way to the ground level some other way besides the stairs.

* * *

><p>They start asking questions back and forth, Belle's head fuzzy enough that she can't quite recall which of them started it.<p>

"Biggest fear?" Sidney asks.

She takes a swig from the bottle—she's gotten over the initial burn, or perhaps that's just the whirring in her head concealing it. "Letting people decide for me. Giving up my fate to the hands others, really."

"Other _people_?" he asks, with a knowing look.

"Okay, R—Gold. Letting him decide, but not just him. Everyone. Mostly I'm afraid that I'll let him, them, everyone make my choices for me. It would be so easy, to just let go, you know?"

"Yeah, but you're right, it would be giving up."

"Might not feel like it."

"Not at first, no." The journalist takes the bottle from her, wetting his own palette. "You don't need to worry. That's not going to happen to you."

His words make her smile. "Same question." She pokes his arm, trying for annoying. "What are you afraid of, once and future chief editor?"

"Easy. Being alone." He doesn't say 'again.' He doesn't have to.

She leans forward and taps the orange juice bottle against the whiskey in a mock salute. "I know that one."

Sidney doesn't laugh. "I know you do, Rose. Okay, is this," he smirks at her, and she regrets his forgotten youth spent in a bottle on his behalf, "the drunkest you've ever been?"

She laughs. "No—once before." Belle stops, because she can't exactly tell him that it was in a tavern and a fairy and a dwarf were involved. No, no, that was completely out of the question. "I gave Leroy love advice."

"No shit?"

"Shit."

Sidney chuckles, but then narrows his eyes at her, "You didn't…" He tapers off, and she stares at him.

"What?" Belle asks, oblivious.

"You and Leroy. You two didn't, oh, _you know_."

"Oh my god, no. _No_." She hits Sidney on the shoulder. "I can't believe you'd even ask that!"

When the reporter finally gets his drunken laughter under control he asks, "Wow, when did this happen? You had to of been pretty young."

Oh right, the cursed timeline. She really shouldn't drink and start telling tales of days gone by. "Oh, it was forever ago."

Sidney looks thoughtful. A bit too thoughtful. Belle wonders if true love's kiss would do the trick, but hardly thinks the queen capable of all that. Before realizing her mouth is moving, she asks the question she's been dying to know the answer to for over thirty years, "Why do you love her?"

Her friend does not answer for some time, and she thinks that maybe, once again, she's put a stop to their stories. "It's her face."

"Her face?" Belle questions, but the dreamy look Sidney wears and all the whiskey she's drank gives her an entirely different notion. "Oh yeah, her face," she says, gesturing to her own chest, making an incredulous face. "You just _love _Regina's face. I bet you just love staring at her _face_."

"Hey, I'm serious. Cut it out." He taps her foot with his own.

Belle forces down her chuckling. "Okay, what is it about your fair maiden's face?"

"Her face holds more, I don't know," he says, but Belle can tell that he does truly know, but holds the secret knowledge dearly. He admits it, finally, "Her face holds more _life_, I guess is the only way to say it. More than I've ever known. Ever could. I love that."

Belle nods, and for the first time, thinks she can at least partially understand, this cloistered man's obsession with the great queen.

She knows he's going to ask, because they've done this before. "Why do you love Gold?"

She smiles as she answers, not needing to even think about the words—and not just because she's had more than her fill of liquor. "Because he wasn't at all like I thought he would be. Because when I say something, he never _ever_ forgets. Because he makes me laugh with his odd jokes. Because he's a mix between a pack rat and magpie. Because he loves with a depth I never knew possible, before I met him." She turns to Sidney, "I don't love everything about him, quite the contrary in fact, but there's enough there to love, more than enough, really."

The reporter nods. "I don't understand it, Rose, but I'm glad." He takes her hand in his own, because he's felt a kinship to this strange, mad girl that he's never felt for anyone else. "I'm happy for you, really, I am."

She beams, squeezing his hand. "Hey, let's dance," she says suddenly, pulling him to his feet.

* * *

><p>The two don't hear the printers stop, but by the time they've danced themselves sweaty and silly, stopping long enough to miss the whir of machinery, they realize it's quite late—or early. Sidney checks on the printers as Belle cleans up, tossing out the empty bottles into the larger trash bin in the hallway and closing the open drawers in her friend's cubicle.<p>

"Well, the good news is the papers are done, the bad news is the machine's cold." Belle looks at him questioningly, not understanding his reason for dismay. "Meaning, it's been done a while ago. We could have left, been home, a while ago."

She groans, her head swimming. She was still more than a little drunk, and she had to walk home now. Fun.

She sees Sidney toying with his keys. "Oh no you don't." She snatches them out of his hand. "You're too drunk to drive."

"I wasn't going to drive."

Belle gives him an accusatory glare.

"Okay, I may have been toying with the idea. I don't want to walk." It was true that Sidney the longer walk of the two of them—though neither lived exactly close. Suddenly, the man snaps his finger. "I got it. I know who can give us both a ride."

"Oh, no," Belle says, sober enough to know this is the start of a horribly bad idea. "No, no, no, I refuse to ride with your Regina."

"I know. I'm not stupid," he says, and it's almost like they're both on the same page for the first time in this world. Sidney pulls out his cell phone and dials a number. "Hey—" he makes a grimace. "Yes, I'm aware what time it is. Look, I need a favor."

Belle watches him roll his eyes.

"Think of it as your civic duty—Why? I'm too drunk to drive—a liability to the safety of fellow Storybrooke citizens, that's why." He smiles then, and Belle can't help but giggle, having no idea who exactly her friend has just commissioned. "Great. I owe you one—Yeah, I'm at the office—Great, see you in ten."

* * *

><p>"You know, Sidney, I'm still not very happy with you over the whole bugging thing, and just so you know, even though I drive a yellow car, that doesn't make me a taxi service—" Sherriff Swan finally looks up from her tirade to see that the reporter is not alone, "Oh, hey Rose," she says the statement more like a question. Her eyes pan back and forth between the two. "What's going, I mean, what are you doing here?"<p>

Sidney waits for a red-cheeked Rose to answer, but when she doesn't, instead exploring the matted, office carpeting with her big toe (her shoes having disappeared hours ago) he answers for her, "She works here."

Emma nods slowly, eyes widening. Because his answer doesn't begin to answer any of her unspoken questions. "Well, let's go, I guess. Everyone got their stuff?" she asks, and Sidney thinks what a poor mother she'd make. He pictures her with her yellow bug full squirming brats, forgetting half their school things, off to some sporting event, all with Emma clad in her usual battle garb, all of it too sexy, but always paired with sensible boots—however, all that leather couldn't be cheap. Not to mention all those jackets.

Yeah, that's good wording. He'd have to remember that for a story, for when the custody battle heats up.

Between the three of them, they find Belle's missing shoes, and finally make it outside to her waiting car. Once everyone is buckled in, Emma asks, "So, where am I headed?"

"My place," Sidney says, because the sheriff is just too damn easy and he can't help himself. After a few awkward beats, the two friends in the backseat start cracking up. "I'm kidding. Take her to Gold's."

The drive is uncomfortable to say the least, Emma glancing back in the rearview every few seconds to check on them. It doesn't help that his Rose has decided to rest her eyes, leaning her head on his shoulder.

Luckily, Gold doesn't live too far out. He gently shakes Rose as they pull up. "Hey, kid, we're here."

She looks up smiling at him, yawning. "That was fast."

Emma parks in front of the pink house. Turning to the backseat she asks, "Do I need to walk you?"

"I'm fine, but thank you Emma, for driving. I owe you a favor," she says easily.

Too easily, the other two note. Not Gold's girl in that way, at least.

She kisses Sidney's cheek, "See you tomorrow." She slides out of the car and hurries across the lawn. When she stumbles on the last step, she turns back, giggling in the car headlights.

"Sidney, you do know that she's—" Emma begins, but then sighs. "Actually, you know, I'm still mad at you. Go ahead, invite Gold's rage. Whatever—I don't want to know."

"It's fine. I know what I'm doing."

"I said, I don't want to know, okay."

They watch as the girl raises a hand to knock, but the door opens immediately, to a fully dressed Mr. Gold. He does not look happy, emerging from the unlit house, but Rose latches onto his dark, possessive figure as if her were father Christmas.

Emma raises a hand out the window, before turning around. Gold nods an acknowledgement. The sheriff watches out the rearview as the couple disappear into the house. After turning toward Sidney Glass' apartment, Emma gives her lecture another go, because if she's going to be a mother, she might as well practice. "She's taken. Like, _taken_ taken. You do know that, right?"

"Emma, it's not like that."

"Okay, okay. Just checking."

"We're friends."

The young sheriff nods, but then asks, because she never could hold her tongue. "You spy on her for Regina too?"

Sidney scowls. "No, not Rose I don't." They drive the rest of the time in silence, until he exits the car, he stops at the driver's side window. "Your roommate's truck, you should have a look around the trunk. Never know what you might find," he whispers.

Emma groans, "You can't be serious, Sidney."

He holds up his hands innocently, but his face is anything but apologetic. "Even for the ride?"

She sighs, "Yeah. Fine. Night Sidney."

* * *

><p>He feels it when she slips into his cubicle—more like bulldozes. He puts a hand to his throbbing head. "So, how much trouble, you get into?"<p>

Rose giggles, "Someone looks like they could use a nap."

"Someone could use a little quiet," he says. Belatedly, he adds, "and an aspirin."

More loud, goddamned noises. He groans, covering his eyes. Florescent light and hangovers are a terrible combination. Suddenly, there's a hand leaning on his shoulder. "What?"

"Here, take these."

Sidney looks up to the woman who suddenly looks very much like Mother Theresa. He takes the two blue pills from her hand. "Thanks, kid." He dry, swallows, but they stick half way down his throat. Quickly, he pulls yet another flask from where it's slipped behind the computer monitor and takes a swig. He only mildly wants to gag.

"Are you insane?" she hisses, putting a hand to her cover her own nose and mouth. Apparently, she wasn't as unaffected by their night of revelry as she'd at first appeared.

"Drinking a little helps with a real bad hangover." He extends the flask, raising his eyebrows in question. Rose shakes her head, the hand moving to her stomach. He smirks. "So, seriously, how pissed was Gold?"

She giggles. "Oh what's that saying, a lady never kisses and tells."

Christ, there's that gag reflex again. "You do know I'm hungover and have a sensitive stomach at the moment."

She laughs, swatting his arm, and he can't help but join in, though it starts up the marching band playing through his skull.

"Oh, he said to give you this."

"The aspirin? How thoughtful of him."

"No, this." She hands him an envelope, with the top torn open. Sidney takes it, smirking. "I read it. Didn't think you'd much mind."

He scoffs, "'Course not." He takes out the note, knowing it does not bode well, but the fact that Rose can still laugh and tease after having read it softens the worst of Sidney's foreboding.

_Dog,  
><em>_Your presence is expected at the library backroom. Come at noon, alone. We've a topic of mutual interest to discuss. Speak of this to our dear lady mayor and the deal's off.  
><em>_G_

Sidney frowns, ripping the note to unreadable bits, before tossing it in the trash bin. At least this tête-à-tête was taking place in a half-way public venue—murder was more difficult to commit in those types of places.

"He thinks you're corrupting me." She says, tapping his foot with her sandaled own. Her toes were bright, too bright.

Sidney closes his eyes. "Yeah, well, I did get you drunk off your ass."

"So, you're going to do it then, meet with him?"

"I don't have much of a choice, now do I, kid?"

"I could talk to him, maybe."

Sidney thinks the prospect over for a moment. No, that wouldn't help. Instead, any intervention by Rose would only confirm Gold's suspicions. He'd have to handle this himself. Fuck. "No, this is my problem."

"You're not telling me something."

He looks up. "Deal's off," the note had said. Gold put too much stock in his girl's innocence. She was sneaky, and Sidney had nothing to do with it. "I don't tell you lots of things, and it's not like you're an open book either."

She blows past the accusation. "What deal is he talking about?"

"Oh, I don't know. Why don't you ask him?"

"Didn't think you'd tell me anyway," she huffs. "Tell him, I said hello, and that I request you not to kill each other, if you please," she commands, with a wave of the hand that looks a bit too much like her boyfriend's. Sidney wonders briefly just exactly was corrupting whom.

* * *

><p>Rumpelstiltskin is worried. He doesn't like worrying. He thought he hadn't much worried for, well excepting the wooden bastard incident, since his first hundred years. Belle's association with the queen's dog, however breaks his record and makes him very worried. Down right nervous even.<p>

She makes everyone fall in love with her, and that perhaps, is what worries him the most. He waltzes into the microfilm room of the library ten minutes after noon—might as well let the dog sweat a bit.

The room is dark, better for reading the microfiche machines, what's more it's closed off and obscure, the perfect place for a meeting such as this, a meeting that's actually a negotiation of lethal consequences. He locks the door, behind, best not to be disturbed.

Sidney Glass stands in the middle of the room, looking reluctant, and the worse for wear after his night of drinking with Rumpelstiltskin's true love. Gold's hand tightens on the cane as he moves to stand across from the reporter.

"Thought you weren't going to show."

"You see, that's the difference between you and I, Glass: I always honor my agreements. Thank you for tearing yourself away from Regina's arse long enough to meet with me. It's greatly appreciated."

The dark man scoffs, rolling his eyes. "Look, last night, was just a fluke, and the cooking lessons, they help you too. Kid, couldn't even boil water before."

Gold bristles—the man was trying to save his own skin. Charming. He holds up a hand, halting the man's spastic excuses. "Oh yeah, that's why you so magnanimously offered to teach her the culinary arts, because you worried she wouldn't be able to prepare my dinner? I'm to believe that?"

"I don't see why you can't just accepting that I—" Glass looks around, clearly suspicious, but he always was a damn good actor, before leaning closer to finish, dropping his voice. "wanted—_want_—to help her."

"I have accepted it. I thanked you for it—what's more, I've held up my end of the bargain, up 'till now—"

"Then what's the big deal?"

"_Don't _interrupt me, Glass." Rumpelstiltskin starts to pace, slowly, calculatingly. _"_But that doesn't mean, I don't think you had ulterior motives in doing so, and that you don't have them currently."

"That's ridiculous. I can do something for myself, Gold."

"Be that as it may, I'm not here to talk semantics. I'm here to talk survival." He stops pacing, turning, with both hands on his cane, trying to look as intimidating as his human form will allow. "I'll lay it down for your simple, journalistic, bottom line mind: you hurt her in any way, you're dead."

To the dog's credit, he gulps, visibly. Not completely an unintelligent pet.

"Unintentional?" Gold shrugs, laughing, "Makes no difference to me. There won't be time to call Regina," he pulls out her name, his accent putting an _r_ at the end, where one doesn't rightly go. "Nor to explain whatever shite you've started in on this time. I won't ask your reasons. I'll kill you. No questions asked. And you can quote me on that back to your precious mayor."

"Like I'd tell her I'd made a deal with you—"

"I wasn't finished, Glass," he growls. "You hurt her; you're a dead man. Have I made myself very clear on this point?"

Sidney swallows hard. "I got it."

"Good." Gold limps out, the situation taken care of to his satisfaction, but Sidney stops him.

"She's too good for you."

He waves a loose hand, "Oh, I'm well aware of that."

"You know, I think you want me out of the way, then you'd have her all to yourself, isolated, no friends, no family, just you."

He whirls on him, "Don't talk to me about _isolated_, dog. That bitch of yours locked her away for time out of mind. So don't you dare, talk to me about keeping her isolated."

"Don't talk about Regina; you don't have any idea what she's really like."

The dog is loyal as ever. The fool of a jinn had always had a weakness for beautiful women—Reul Ghorm is nothing if not seductive and where had that led, only a hundred years solitude in a lamp with little room to move and even less room to make decisions. You'd think the fool would learn. Apparently not.

For all his anger and anxiety, Gold can't help but laugh. "I could stand here and listen to your story of oh-how-complicated our lady mayor truly is, but the fact of the matter is I don't give a damn. You may proceed, but know the warning stands, and as I said before, I always honor my agreements."

* * *

><p>She comes over as he's sipping on his flask, often.<p>

"So, how bad was it?"

Sidney takes another drag, grimacing. "Eh, could have been worse."

"Death threats."

"Plenty."

"Name calling?"

"That too." Then, Sidney risks a slap, because he's had a down dressing, had the love of his life insulted, and endured the most serious of death threats, "You picked a real winner, kid."

"Sidney, you don't—"

"I know, I know," he amends quickly.

"Will I see you for dinner next week?"

He feels a hand on his shoulder, but doesn't turn around. "Of course you will."

* * *

><p>She appears asleep when he slips into bed, late, but he has a feeling she's lying in wait. After he settles beneath the sheets, she rolls onto her back and says, "You didn't have to be so hard-handed, you know."<p>

"That's where you're wrong, m'dear. My actions were more than necessary."

"But I trust him."

"Yes, and I don't."

Belle doesn't say anything for sometime. They lie there, breathing in the dark.

"What the deal, in the note?"

"The dog told you?"

"I read it on the walk to the office."

He smirks at his beautiful, smart Belle. "'Course you did."

"The deal, Rumpelstiltskin. Tell me."

He grumbles. The knowledge will increase her trust and undermine his case against the groveling, boot-licker, but she's his true love, and true love meant no secrets. "He told me how to find you, in exchange for my not revealing his involvement with her majesty."

"I wondered," she whispers, barely audible.

He turns to her, sliding a hand over her stomach. She wears one of his button downs, and even now, when things are tense and he's more worried than he has been in ages and worlds, that simple fact makes him smile. "What do you mean, dearie?"

"He doesn't remember me, but," and she turns, sliding her own arm around his middle, finding each other in the dark is easier for some odd reason, even when in the light there's irritations and passive aggressive looks (his tea had been hardly steeped, he'd noted earlier that evening). "It's the same for you, I think, promises, _deals_, aren't forgotten from one world to the next."

The explanation is lacking, but they are both so tired from the day of death threats over lunch and the expulsion of last night's liquor through heavy sweats and a mild headache. He accepts it. He kisses her softly, like that first time. "Just be careful, alright?"

"Deal."

* * *

><p>It's sweltering. The tar-covered roof is not helping. "God, it's hot today," Sidney says, loosening his tie. He's already lost his jacket and rolled up his sleeves.<p>

Belle sits, fanning her legs with the skirt of her dress. It had been hot for the past week. The roof wouldn't do, especially if it was true the things Sidney had told her about summers in Maine—he'd certainly lived through enough of them. They couldn't keep this up, but Belle hated the idea of eating inside. Hadn't she spent enough time inside for multiple lives? Sighing, she stands up, "Come on, let's go back."

Sidney frowns, waving her off. "With all those stuffy writers. Rather not." He eyes the town expanse in front of them. He'd had the idea a while ago, but he had avoided it, for obvious reasons. Now, however, he didn't see any other option. Plus, he was sick of hiding. If they hadn't been discovered thus far, perhaps they were safe. "We could move to the park," he offers, hesitantly.

"The park?" she asks, but there's too much hope in her voice. He knew she'd love the idea—half the reason he'd neglected to mention it until now.

"Yeah," he points off into the distance. "There's a bench or two in the shade. Hell, it's got to be better than this sauna."

She smiles, looking toward the grassy area, covered in flowering trees. "We could." She looks to Sidney, "you're sure about this?"

The reporter has to smile, because it makes him happy and proud that his girl is smart enough to see the potential pitfalls to this idea. They both know it could change things.

"I'm sure. We're both sweating buckets. Let's try it out tomorrow."

She's grinning ear to ear, "Alright, tomorrow."

* * *

><p>The next day is an uneventful Thursday. In significantly, cooler shade offered by the trees in the park, their lunchtime ritual goes without notice.<p>

They eat. Sidney reads over a short piece she has written, in an effort to move up from simple editor to actual columnist. "Too many adjectives."

"But I like adjectives," Belle says.

"Yeah, but this is excessive. For journalism, you have to be succinct, to the point, or else people get bored."

"That's not how I read."

"Yeah, but you're different—good, different. You read actual books. Those reading a newspaper do so in the fifteen minutes of breakfast or on the bus on the way to work. If they can't digest something in that amount of time, you'll lose 'em."

Belle nods, "I can write for that."

"Sure you can."

* * *

><p>They're laughing over the purposeful typo Sidney snuck into the yesterday's <em>Daily Mirror<em>—turns out the new service offered by Modern Fashions, is perhaps a bit _too _modern. "Sidney, you're going to get in actual trouble for this one."

"I don't see why, really, the foot traffic that store is going to get—they should be thanking me." Her friend turned 'boot shine' into 'boob shine.' "Plus, no one can trace it back to me anyway."

She moves to the sink to drain the pasta for the pesto sauce they've made. She's still trying to get her breathing under control, when they both hear the front door open—_for he never locks it on Tuesdays and Thursdays_.

"Sidney, I heard the strangest thing today." Madam mayor herself, the lady queen Regina appears in the kitchen archway, "That you had lunch in the park with—Oh," she looks up and sees the woman in question, apron-clad, strainer in hand. The queen pastes on her most syrupy smile, "Hello, Miss French."

"Regina, hi," Sidney says, lamely. "You know Rose French. She's an editor over at the paper."

"Yes, I was aware of that," Regina says, eyes not leaving Belle's face. "How are you finding your new line of work, Miss French? Must be a bit strenuous after all that time _away_."

_You made me scream, you mended my bones, stitched my skin. You stared at me through a hole in the wall for three decades. You steal hearts, but not mine. _

"Not in the least—certainly a lot less prying eyes in the newspaper business."

The queen's eyes narrow to dangerous slits. She turns to Sidney, giving him, a wicked, pernicious smile. "Well, I can see that you have company. Wouldn't want to intrude on such an _intimate_ gathering." She turns on her heel, leaving.

"Regina," Sidney calls, running after her.

He doesn't make it, and Belle hears the queen slam the door. Her friend had been right in his caution; the park has changed things.

She's untying her apron, when Sidney trudges back to the kitchen. She sets the item on a kitchen chair. "I'll go now."

As she moves past him, he puts a hand to her shoulder, "No, stay. The food's almost ready."

Belle gives him a sad smile, "Stay for a last supper?"

He chuckles, "For a woman locked away, you know your western civ." Silently, they go back to preparing dinner, but Belle notices, Sidney's eyes keep flitting to the alcohol cabinet.

When they sit down to eat, they're still trapped in silence. He breaks it, and Belle wonders if he remembers a certain promise, one of many, about speaking enough for the both of them. "I'm sorry, Rose."

She shrugs. "It's alright. I understand."

"You do?"

Belle nods, "Yes, and I'm sad, but I understand." She pushes the untouched food around on her plate, having lost any appetite. "I'll miss this," she says, not worrying at treading softly over the details, for they both know where their loyalties lie, and that whatever they had, has now come to an end.

"Me too, kid, me too."

They finish in silence, clean up in silence, and when Belle makes to leave, she leans in, before he can stop her hugging him and giving him a final peck on the cheek. "Thank you, for being my friend," she says.

He nods, smiling sadly, and she leaves immediately, to spare him any more of her tears.

* * *

><p>The tower shakes, and the skies outside have grown black as night. Belle's terrified, and when she feels that she in no longer alone, she takes comfort in the presence of her friend, "What's going on?" she asks the man in the mirror.<p>

"The queen's enacted a great curse. We will be taken to a new world, and she will finally have her happy ending, but none for her enemies."

Belle nods, sounded like something the bitch would concoct. However, the details seem familiar for another reason, but she can't exactly remember the details. Then, the wind picks up, and it's all she can do to focus on anything but covering her face from the flying cutting rocks and straw all around her. She yells out to him, glad not to be alone for this great upheaval, "Will you have a body, in this new world?"

"Perhaps, I do not know."

She wishes the wind would quiet down, just a little. She'd like in these last minutes to have a quiet chat with her friend—if she's to die, for surely a storm like this will swallow them whole and spit out the pieces, she'd like to finally have that chance to say goodbye. "I wish you luck, in this new life," she offers. Then, at the end, because Belle truly believes this to be the end, "My friend."

The mirror senses her despair, "The queen will still have you, in this new world."

If they survive that long. "I guessed as much."

"I—I will try to set you free, if I can."

She blinks, almost drawing her hands away from her face to get a look at the mirror, but then thinks the better of it, the debris growing steadily larger, "Thank you."

"It's nothing, princess."

Then a great wind blasts through the stone and the miniscule mirror smashes. Belle clutches at her neck and head, as she falls (again), the stones beneath her giving way. She closes her eyes and thinks on the last time she was happy and waits for death.

Just as suddenly as the tumult began, it stops. Her ears ring from the sudden lack of sound—it is a deafening silence, as silent as a tomb. She shakes, though the room does not move beneath her.

Slowly, she opens her eyes. She's in a dungeon, different, but a dungeon nonetheless. Her clothes are strange, as if belonging to the clerics or scribes long dead beneath the western mountains. "Where are we?" she asks looking to the corner by the door, but there is of course no mirror there.

She is alone.

* * *

><p>They pass in the office, around the downtown, and Belle always smiles brightly as she can. Sidney usually offers a somber grin. They do not speak, and when she tells her lover of what occurred, she's glad that he only offers comfort and refrains from crowing victory—though he can't hide the fact that he is pleased with the dog's exit from his true love's life.<p>

Belle makes friends, slowly. Ruby and Sister Astrid, of course. She eventually convinces the sheriff that she's just as sane as the next cursed person in town. She takes dinner once a week with her father—Gold even joins on one occasion. No persons were harmed during the course of the evening—and she continues in her quiet, happy little life with her lover.

If the fact that her old friend looks even older and more run down these days, she imagines it's the strain of having a body, after so long without.

The post-it on her desk arrives out of nowhere. "Chief liked it, even with all the adjectives." Attached to the back is her column in the mock-up of the following day's paper.

Later that morning, when the chief editor stops by her cubicle to talk about her writing regularly, Belle can't help but find his face across the room. He offers her a quick wink, before looking away, and she can't help, but wish for a day when they'll find a way to be friends once again.


End file.
